• 


1 


THE  STORY  OF  DUCIEHURST 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS  •   ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OP  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE  STORY  OF 
DUCIEHURST 

A  Tale  of  the  Mississippi 

BY 

CHARLES  EGBERT  CRADDOCK 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  FAIR  MISSISSIPPI  AN,"  "THE  AMULET,"  "THE  STORM 

CENTRE,"  "THE  STORY  or  OLD  FORT  LOUDON,"  "A  SPECTRE 

OF  POWER,"  "THE  ORDEAL,"  "THE  PROPHET  OF 

THE  GREAT  SMOKY  MOUNTAINS,"  ETC. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1914 


COPTWCHT,  1914 

By  TBE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electro  typed.    Published  July,    1914. 


THE  STORY  OF  DUCIEHURST 


M555073 


THE  STORY  OF  DUCIEHURST 


CHAPTER   I 

DEAD  low  water  and  there  the  steamboat  lay  on 
the  sand-bar,  stranded  and  helpless.  The  surging 
swirls  of  the  swift  current  raced  impetuously  on 
either  side.  Scarcely  a  furlong  distant  on  that  cor 
rugated,  rippling  surface  the  leadsman  had  heaved 
the  plummet  of  the  sounding-line  at  "deep  four." 
Nevertheless  the  craft  had  grounded  here  on  a  sub 
merged  projection  of  a  "tow-head"  built  of  silt  and 
detritus  by  the  ever  shifting  Mississippi,  attaining 
dangerous  proportions  since  the  last  run  of  the  boat. 
All  unknown  and  unsuspected  it  lurked  till  "quarter 
less  twain"  was  sung  out,  but  the  next  cry  of  the 
leadsman  smote  the  air  like  the  sound  of  doom. 
Before  the  engines  could  be  reversed  the  steamer 
was  in  shoal  water,  ploughing  into  the  sand  with  the 
full  momentum  of  her  speed,  the  shock  of  the  impact 
shattering  the  equilibrium  of  all  on  board. 

Straight  ensued  the  contortions  of  mechanical  en 
ergy  common  to  such  occasions;  the  steamboat  re 
peatedly  sought  to  back  off  from  the  sand;  failing  in 
this  she  went  forward  on  one  wheel  and  then  on  the 
other,  finally  on  both,  trying  to  force  her  way  across 
the  barrier  to  her  progress,  in  technical  phrase  "to 
jump  the  bar." 

At  length  the  Captain  confessedly  relinquished 

1 


2  THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

the  attempt  to  effect  the  release  of  the  craft  under 
her  own  steam.  The  fires  sank  down  in  the  fur 
naces;  the  water  cooled  in  the  boilers;  and  the  pas 
sengers  of  the  still  and  silent  boat  resigned  them 
selves  to  await  with  such  patience  as  they  could  mus 
ter  the  rescue  which  might  be  furnished  by  a  pass 
ing  packet,  none  due  for  twenty-four  hours,  or  which 
a  rise  in  the  river  might  compass,  for  the  clouds  of 
the  dull  October  afternoon  were  heavy  and  sullen 
and  intimated  the  near  probability  of  rain. 

A  group  had  begun  to  assemble  on  the  promenade 
deck,  disconsolately  looking  out  at  the  rippling 
tawny  expanse  of  the  vast  vacant  river,  for  the  bight 
of  the  bend  was  as  lonely  a  spot  as  could  be  found 
throughout  its  course.  On  either  side  of  the  deep 
groove  of  the  great  channel  the  banks  rose  high, 
seeming  precipitous  at  this  shrunken  stage  of  the 
water.  In  the  background  loomed  gigantic  forests 
with  foliage  sere  or  green  as  the  nature  of  the 
growths  might  determine. 

The  leveling  effect  of  the  stereotyped  surround 
ings  of  travel  served  to  bring  out  in  distinct  relief 
the  individual  characteristics  of  the  passengers.  Mr. 
Floyd-Rosney  received  the  Captain's  final  admission 
of  defeat  with  the  silence  and  surly  dignity  befitting 
an  implacable  affront,  and  his  manner  could  scarcely 
have  been  justified  had  he  and  his  family  been  wil 
fully  abducted  by  orders  of  the  owners  of  the  packet 
line.  In  his  wonted  environment  at  his  home,  en 
compassed  by  all  the  insignia  of  wealth  and  station, 
he  might  have  seemed  a  man  of  such  preeminent  im 
portance  and  fashion  as  to  render  a  contretemps 
impertinent  and  significant  of  a  failure  of  respect 
and  service,  but  here,  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer, 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST  3 

his  sullen  impatience  of  the  common  disaster,  his 
frowning  ungenial  mien  in  receiving  the  apology  of 
the  Captain,  poor  victim  of  the  underhand  wiles  of 
the  great  Mississippi,  betokened  an  exacting  ill-con 
ditioned  temperament,  and  suggested  that  his  wife 
might  be  anything  but  a  happy  woman,  even  before 
she  emerged  from  the  saloon  and  he  met  her  with  a 
rebuke,  which  was  the  obvious  vent  of  his  general 
ill-humor  that  could  not  be  visited  on  independent 
strangers. 

"Too  late, — as  usual!"  He  turned  and  placed 
a  chair  for  her  with  an  air  of  graceful  and  consider 
ate  courtesy.  "The  fun  is  all  over, — the  Captain 
has  given  up  the  game." 

The  coercions  of  good  society  rendered  it  im 
perative  that  he  should  somewhat  veil  his  displeas 
ure,  but  the  thin  veneer  of  his  graciousness  was 
patently  insincere  and  did  not  commend  his  pretense 
of  regret  for  her  sake  that  she  should  have  missed 
the  spectacle  of  the  gyrations  of  the  boat  in  seeking 
to  free  itself  from  the  sand-bar,  though,  indeed,  one 
might  travel  far  and  never  witness  the  like. 

He  was  singularly  handsome,  about  thirty-five 
years  of  age,  tall,  well  built,  admirably  groomed, 
fair  and  florid,  with  finely  chiseled  features,  straight 
dark  hair  and  large  brown  eyes,  whose  inherent  lus 
ter  was  dulled  by  their  haughty,  disparaging  gaze. 
He  rated  his  fellow-men  but  lightly  in  the  scale  of 
being,  and,  save  for  the  detention,  he  would  not 
have  appeared  on  deck  or  exchanged  a  word  with 
the  rest  of  the  passengers  in  the  tedious  interval  of 
making  his  landing. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  at  last  consented  to  sit 
here  awhile,"  he  continued  to  his  wife,  with  flimsy 


4  THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

solicitude.  "That  stuffy  little  state-room  is  enough 
to  asphyxiate  you." 

His  moods,  indeed,  were  elements  to  be  reckoned 
with  and  his  wife  was  eager  and  smiling  in  making 
her  excuses.  "Oh,  I  should  have  come  at  once,"  she 
protested, — "only  the  baby  was  so  reluctant  to  take 
his  nap.  I  couldn't  get  away  till  he  was  asleep." 
She  was  nervously  adjusting  her  wrap,  appropriate 
and  handsome,  but  evidently  hastily  flung  on. 

"I  think  he  has  a  nurse,"  her  husband  remarked 
in  surly  sarcasm. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course, — but  he  wanted  me, — he 
would  not  let  go  my  hand  till  he  was  fast  asleep." 

She  was  as  much  as  ten  years  her  husband's  junior, 
of  a  blonde  type  very  usual  in  American  life.  One 
might  have  thought  to  have  seen  her  often,  so  fa 
miliar  have  become  the  straight,  delicate  somewhat 
angular  lineaments,  the  fair  hair,  the  gray  or  blue 
eyes,  the  slender,  yet  strong,  elastic  physique.  The 
degree  of  beauty,  of  course,  is  dependent  on  the 
blending  of  these  elements  and  its  pleasing  appeal. 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  was  one  of  the  finer  examples 
of  the  ordinary  mold.  Her  features  were  classic 
in  their  regularity;  her  delicately  kept,  redundant 
blonde  hair  had  a  silken  sheen  that  simulated  bur 
nished  gold;  her  gray  eyes  were  of  a  darkly  greenish 
luster  that  suggested  moss-agates,  and  they  were 
shaded  by  long,  pensive  lashes  almost  black;  the 
whole  effect  was  heightened  by  her  dark  brown  cloth 
gown  with  narrow  bands  of  seal  fur,  the  hat  corre 
sponding  with  the  rich  yet  plain  costume  that  be 
tokened  a  traveling  garb.  She  had  a  certain  covertly 
derisive  expression  in  her  eyes,  whenever  diverted 
from  her  husband,  for  it  must  needs  be  a  brave  wife, 


THE   STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST  5 

indeed,  who  could  banter  that  imposing  presence. 
To  this  look  a  trick  of  an  occasional  upward  cant 
of  the  chin  gave  special  emphasis.  When  she  seemed 
amused  one  could  not  be  sure  whether  she  was  laugh 
ing  with  her  interlocutor,  or  at  him.  In  fact,  she  had 
a  marked  gift  of  irony  which  she  sometimes  carried 
so  far  as  to  suggest  the  danger  of  recoil.  Her  old 
nurse,  in  the  state-room,  who  had  tended  her  in 
fancy,  as  well  as  now  her  three-year-old  boy,  had 
often  warned  her  in  years  agone,  when  the  victim  of 
her  unhallowed  mirth,  "You  surely  will  stump  your 
toe  some  day, — better  mind  how  you  skip  along." 
The  discerning  observer  might  well  fancy  she  had 
duly  met  this  check  in  her  career  in  her  choice  of 
a  husband,  for  the  obvious  repression  in  her  man 
ner  toward  him  suggested  a  spirit-breaking  process 
already  well  in  hand.  Her  deprecatory  disarming 
glance  when  their  eyes  met  had  in  it  an  eager 
plea  for  approval  which  was  almost  derogatory, 
curiously  at  variance  with  her  beauty,  and  position, 
and  handsome  garb,  and  her  assured  manner  in  de 
porting  herself  toward  others. 

"The  best  you  can  do  for  us,  Captain  Disnett?" 
she  had  caught  the  words  of  the  skipper's  apology 
as  she  issued.  "Then  all  I  can  say  is  that  bad  is 
the  best!" 

She  regarded  the  immense  spread  of  the  great 
river  with  disparaging  objection.  "How  low  it  is, 
— in  every  sense  of  the  word." 

Despite  her  assured  pose  a  certain  consciousness 
informed  her  manner  when  her  eyes  suddenly  fell 
upon  a  young  man  of  thirty,  perhaps,  who  was  stand 
ing  near  the  railing  of  the  guards,  apparently  rue 
fully  revolving  the  Captain's  announcement  that  it 


6  THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

was  impossible  to  get  the  Cherokee  Rose  off  the 
sand-bar  under  her  own  steam.  Mrs.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney's  surprise,  for  she  had  started  on  perceiving  him 
and  flushed  with  embarrassment,  was  not  recipro 
cal.  He  gave  her  no  glance  of  recognition,  although 
his  eyes  met  hers  in  a  casual  regard  as  he  turned 
from  the  rail  and  drew  forth  his  cigar-case  with 
the  presumable  intention  of  making  himself  as  com 
fortable  as  the  detention  would  permit.  As  yet 
the  baleful  sign,  "Cotton  aboard.  No  smoking  on 
deck,"  had  not  been  displayed,  for  the  boat  was 
on  its  downward  beat  and  would  not  take  on  cotton 
until  returning  up  the  river.  His  muscles  were  sud 
denly  stilled,  however,  and  there  was  a  moment  of 
intent,  though  covert,  observation  of  her,  when  her 
name  was  abruptly  called  out  in  blithe  tones  as  a 
young  girl  emerged  upon  the  deck. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney!  I  did  not  know  you 
were  on  board.  How  perfectly  delightful,"  with  a 
swift  cordial  rush,  both  hands  outstretched.  "Cap 
tain  Disnett,"  she  whirled  upon  the  skipper,  in  buoy 
ant  parenthesis,  "I  forgive  you!  You  have  merely 
contrived  us  an  enchanting  week-end  house  party.  I 
don't  know  when  or  where  I  should  have  met  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney  otherwise.  And  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney, 
too.  Is  little  Ned  here?  Asleep? — Well,  I'll  spare 
his  nap." 

The  deck,  the  whole  dull  day,  seemed  suddenly 
irradiated  by  the  presence  of  the  joyous  young 
beauty.  Naught  but  happiness  surely  came  her  way. 
Eternal  springtide  shone  lustrous,  soft,  mellow  in 
the  depths  of  her  great  sapphire  eyes  with  their  long 
black  lashes  and  thick  white  lids.  Her  hair  was  black 
and  straight  but  her  complexion  was  transparently 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST  7 

fair  and  an  exquisitely  delicate  rose  bloomed  on 
her  cheek.  Her  coral  lips  were  slightly  parted,  for 
she  was  always  exclamatory  and  breathless,  and 
showed  a  glimpse  of  her  even  white  teeth.  She  was 
tall  and  slender,  very  erect,  and  moved  with  the 
deft  certainty  of  trained  muscles,  the  athletic  girl  of 
the  day.  She  wore  a  simple  gown  of  rough  gray 
cloth,  and  a  knowing  little  gray  toque.  She  had  no 
disposition  to  await  events  and,  after  a  brief  com 
prehensive  survey  of  the  personnel  of  the  group,  she 
abruptly  accosted  the  young  man  at  the  rail,  an  im 
passive  spectator  of  her  entrance  on  the  scene. 

"Why,  Mr.  Ducie,"  she  exclaimed  in  blended  sur 
prise  and  affront,  uaren't  you  going  to  speak  to  me?'1 

He  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  He  had  much 
ado  to  get  his  hat  off  his  head  with  a  cigar  in  one 
hand  and  a  blazing  match  in  the  other.  But  this  ac 
complished,  through  casting  the  match  overboard,  he 
came  forward,  replying  with  genial  grace,  albeit  in 
some  embarrassment:  "I  think  my  brother  has  the 
advantage  of  me.  I  am  Mr.  Ducie,  all  right,  but  my 
Christian  name  is  Adrian.  I  fancy  it  must  be  Mr. 
Randal  Ducie  who  has  the  honor  of  your  acquaint 
ance. 

"Oh, — oh, — yes, — but  this "  She  was  lean 
ing  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  stiff  arm-chairs  and 
across  it  openly  studying  his  lineaments.  He  had 
distinctive  features ;  a  thin,  delicate,  slightly  aquiline 
nose,  a  firm  well-rounded  chin,  bold,  luminous  hazel 
eyes,  with  a  thick  fringe  of  long  straight  lashes,  a 
fair  complexion  not  altogether  devoid  of  the  con 
comitant  freckles  here  and  there;  fine  teeth  and 
mobile  red  lips;  and  his  hair,  glowing  in  the  light, 
for  he  still  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  was  of  that  rich 


8  THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

auburn  shade  that  artists  love  and  that  one  sees  in 

paintings  and  seldom  elsewhere.  "But  this " 

she  continued,  "oh, — you  are  fooling  us.  Do  you 
think  I  can  forget  you  so  soon  when  I  waltzed  ten 
miles  with  you  last  winter,  if  it  were  all  strung  out 
in  a  row!  This  is  certainly  Randal  Ducie." 

He  had  begun  to  laugh  in  enjoyment  of  her  per 
plexity.  "Randal  Ducie  is  not  half  so  good  a  man," 
he  protested  gaily. 

"Les  absens  ont  toujours  tort/'  Mrs.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney  brought  herself,  uninvited,  into  the  conversa 
tion.  Not  altogether  welcome  was  her  interpolation, 
for  the  laugh  faded  from  Mr.  Ducie's  face  and  he 
remembered  to  resume  his  hat  and  to  slip  his  cigar- 
case  into  his  pocket,  as  if  in  preparation  to  betake 
himself  elsewhere.  But  if  this  were  his  intention 
it  was  forestalled  by  Miss  Dean. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,"  she  turned  vivacious 
ly  to  that  lady,  since  she  had  of  her  own  motion  en 
tered  the  discussion,  "wouldn't  anybody  think  this 
was  Randal  Ducie?" 

"They  are  much  alike,  but  I  saw  the  difference 
in  a  moment,"  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  was  smiling 
naturally,  graciously,  and  looking  extremely  pretty, 
as  her  husband,  leaning  against  one  of  the  posts  that 
supported  the  superstructure  of  the  deck  and,  smok 
ing  with  strong  long-drawn  puffs,  watched  her  with 
fixed  inscrutable  eyes. 

"Oh,  you  didn't,"  Miss  Dean  contradicted  gaily. 
"You  couldn't!  The  likeness  is  amazing!  Oh, 
pshaw !  it  is  no  likeness.  He  is  guying  us.  This  is 
Randal  Ducie." 

"You  are  the  twin  brother  of  my  young  friend, 
Randal  Ducie?"  Colonel  Kenwynton  asked,  smil- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST  9 

ing,  an  old  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  with  a  cour 
teous  manner  and  a  commanding  presence.  His  tall 
figure  still  retained  the  muscular  slenderness  of  his 
athletic  youth  and  his  stately  martial  carriage;  his 
dense  snowy  hair,  brushed  forward  to  his  brow  and 
parted  on  the  side,  and  also,  straight  down  the  back, 
the  white  imperial  and  long  military  mustachios  gave 
him  the  look  of  a  portrait  of  some  by-gone  celebrity 
rather  than  a  man  of  to-day,  so  had  the  thought  of 
this  fashion  perished.  His  age  was  frosty  but  kindly, 
and  the  young  man  responded  with  covert  humor,  as 
if  elucidating  a  mystery. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  have  always  been  twins, "  he  de 
clared. 

"How  did  you  know  the  difference,  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney?"  demanded  Miss  Dean. 

"I  knew  it  at  once,"  she  replied,  still  smiling,  but 
the  gravity  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband  deepened 
momently  as  he  gazed,  silently,  motionlessly  at  her. 
"I  myself  don't  know  the  difference  at  all,"  said  the 
subject  of  the  discussion.  "When  I  am  with  Ran  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  looking  into  a  mirror." 

"Oh,  how  quaint, — how  enchanting  it  must  be," 
cried  Miss  Dean  extravagantly. 

"And  so  convenient, — I  have  always  made  Ran 
try  the  new  hair  cuts  first." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  any  such  preposterous  thing 
as  that — but  to  have  another  self  so  near,  so  dear, 
to  duplicate  one's  lot  in  life,  to  understand  and  sym 
pathize  with  every  sentiment,  to  share  one's  mind, 
one's  heart " 

"No, — no, — we  draw  the  line  there.  I  am  a  deep 
secret  fellow !  I  could  tolerate  no  twin  of  an  inner 
consciousness  to  spy  out  my  true  soul."  Ducie  was 


10          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

letting  himself  go  in  this  badinage,  and  he  had  no 
meaning  of  a  deeper  intent  than  the  surface  of  jest. 
"And  I  could  undertake  no  such  contract  as  to  sym 
pathize  with  Ran's  extravagant  enthusiasms  and  silly 
sentimentalities." 

The  attention  of  the  group  was  focused  on  the 
speaker.  None  of  them  noticed  the  uprising  con 
scious  flare  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney — ex 
cept,  indeed,  her  husband,  who  was  quick,  too,  to 
recollect  the  significant  fact  that  only  she  had  had  the 
keen  discernment  to  detect  the  difference  between 
this  man  and  the  twin  brother  of  whom  he  seemed 
the  counterpart. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ducie,  how  unkind!"  cried  Miss  Dean. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  with  affected  obduracy,  "Ran  must 
sigh  his  sighs,  and  hope  his  hopes,  and  shed  his  tears 
all  by  himself.  For  my  own  part  I  don't  deal  in 
goods  of  that  grade.  But  if  ever  he  strikes  on  some 
nice  little  speculation,  or  discovers  a  gold  mine,  why 
I  am  his  own  only  twin  brother  and  I  will  come  in 
with  him  on  the  ground  floor." 

"And,  speaking  of  business,"  said  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton,  "how  goes  it  in  the  south  of  France?  "Your 
brother  did  not  accompany  you." 

The  group  had  taken  chairs,  and,  with  the  per 
mission  of  the  ladies,  Ducie  had  lighted  his  cigar. 
"No,  Ran  sticks  to  cotton  through  thick  and  thin. 
It  is  his  creed  that  God  never  thought  it  worth  while 
to  create  anything  but  the  cotton  plant,  and  the 
earth  was  evolved  to  grow  and  market  it." 

Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  was  struggling  with  the  spe 
cies  of  discomposure  which  is  incompatible  with  re 
serve  and  silence.  "You  went  into  the  wine  trade  in- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST          11 

stead,"  she  made  the  parenthetical  statement  from 
an  imperfect  memory. 

Mr.  Ducie  had  that  air  of  averse  distaste  which 
one  feels  in  hearing  one's  own  affairs  misrepresented. 
"Beg  pardon,"  he  said,  "I  quitted  New  Orleans 
some  six  years  ago  with  old  Mr.  Chenault;  he  was 
a  wine  merchant  there,  a  branch  of  a  Bordeaux 
house, — knew  my  father  and  used  to  furnish  my 
grandfather's  cellar  at  Duciehurst  in  the  long  ago. 
He  offered  me  an  opening  in  the  French  house  at 
Bordeaux,  but  I  didn't  take  kindly  to  the  trade,  and 
as  the  Chenaults  had  connections  with  the  silk  man 
ufacturing  interests  in  Lyons  they  contrived  to  wedge 
me  in  with  their  relatives." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  had  obviously  lost 
her  poise,  "I  remember  now, — but  I  can't  recall  who 
was  speaking  of  you  and  your  success  the  other  day, 
— to  be  a  junior  partner  in  the  concern." 

Adrian  Ducie's  consciousness  of  the  breach  of  the 
commercial  verities  turned  him  stiff.  "Oh  no  I  I? 
— a  junior  partner?  Why,  never  in  the  world!"  he 
exclaimed  brusquely.  Then,  realizing  that  there  was 
no  reason  for  heat,  since  the  matter  had  no  concern 
for  those  present,  he  went  on  more  suavely.  "I 
occupy  a  sort  of  confidential  and  privileged  rela 
tion  to  the  members  of  the  firm,  owing  chiefly  to  the 
value  of  the  Chenault  interest,  but  I  have  neither 
the  responsibility  nor  the  profits  of  a  junior  part- 


ner." 


As  he  ceased  to  speak  he  had  a  sudden  look  of 
affront — more  than  aught  else  it  suggested  the  im 
pulse  of  some  spirited  horse  refusing  a  mandate 
of  urgency,  and  ready  to  bolt,  to  rear,  to  assert  an 
insurgent  and  untamed  power.  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's 


12         THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

words  might  bear  an  interpretation  of  an  ill-judged 
patronage, — her  facile  foolish  blandness  in  magni 
fying  the  importance  of  his  opportunity  that  at  its 
best  must  seem  so  very  small  to  her.  With  an  al 
most  visible  effort  he  brought  himself  under  con 
trol  without  a  snort  of  contempt  or  an  impatient 
stamp.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence  so  awk 
ward,  in  view  of  these  forced  disclosures  of  com 
mercial  status  and  financial  interest,  that  Ducie  was 
disposed  to  continue  the  personal  relation  as  a  less 
crude  method  of  its  conclusion  than  bolting  pre 
cipitately  from  the  subject.  "We  have  close  con 
nections,  of  course,  with  importers  in  America  as 
well  as  elsewhere.  It  is  my  mission  to  effect  a  set 
tlement  of  a  matter  in  controversy  with  a  company 
having  extensive  dealings  with  us  and  I  am  glad  to 
utilize  the  opportunity  to  run  in  on  Ran  at  his  plan 
tation  in  this  lower  country  while  I  am  en  route  to 
New  Orleans.  It  makes  this  detention  all  the  more 
unfortunate.  I  lose  time  that  I  might  otherwise 
spend  with  him." 

"You  must  be  awfully  lonesome  over  on  the  other 
side  without  your  twin  brother,  your  other  self," 
said  Miss  Dean,  sweetly  commiserative. 

And,  indeed,  his  face  fell. 

"But  how  lovely  to  be  in  France,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney.  "I  envy  you  your  Paris." 

"Paris!"  he  could  but  fleer.  "I  see  as  much  of 
Paris  as  if  I  were  in  the  Mississippi  swamp."  Then, 
recovering  himself,  "Paris  is  not  France,  so  far  as 
the  silk  manufacturing  interest  is  concerned." 

An  interruption  was  at  hand  and  this  seemed 
well.  An  old  gentleman,  dressed  in  black,  a  Prince 
Albert  coat,  a  wide  soft  felt  hat,  with  a  white  beard 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          13 

and  sightless  eyes,  seeming  more  aged  and  infirm 
than  he  really  was,  by  reason  of  his  groping  progress 
between  a  stout  stick  and  a  pompous  negro  man 
servant,  was  steered  down  the  guards  and  toward 
the  group;  perceiving  whom,  Colonel  Kenwynton 
hastily  arose  and  advanced. 

"Here  we  are,  Major,"  he  exclaimed  jovially, 
"and  here  we  are  likely  to  stay.  (Make  yourself 
scarce,  Tobe,"  he  added  in  parenthesis  to  the  ser 
vant,  "I'll  look  after  the  Major.")  And  Tobe  re 
linquished  his  charge  with  a  grateful  bow,  after  the 
manner  of  the  servitors  of  yore.  Doubtless,  he  was 
glad  of  the  leisure  thus  vouchsafed  him  to  spend, 
after  his  own  liking,  but  he  showed  no  undue  alacrity 
to  avail  himself  of  it.  He  did  not  disappear  until 
he  had  placed  chairs  both  for  the  Major  and  Colonel 
Kenwynton,  glanced  discerningly  at  the  clouds  to 
judge  whether  a  possible  outburst  of  the  setting  sun 
might  render  the  spot  selected  undesirable,  asked  if 
he  should  not  bring  glasses  of  water,  notified  the 
Major  that  he  had  placed  a  light  overcoat  on  a  chair 
hard  by,  in  case  the  veering  of  the  wind  should 
necessitate  protection,  and  only  then  did  the  Major's 
faithful  body-servant  "make  himself  scarce." 

It  was  seldom,  indeed,  that  Major  Lacey  ventured 
so  far  from  his  home,  in  view  of  his  increasing  age, 
with  which  his  infirmities  waxed  in  proportion,  ex 
cept,  indeed,  on  the  various  occasions  of  Confed 
erate  reunions,  when  his  years  fell  from  him,  and 
the  scales  dropped  from  his  eyes,  and  he  was  once 
more  a  dashing  young  officer  with  his  sword  in  his 
hand  and  his  heart  in  his  cause.  He  was  now  return 
ing  from  one  of  these  symposia,  and  the  old  soldier 
would  canvass  its  incidents,  and  discuss  its  personnel, 


14          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

and  repeat  the  toasts,  and  recount  the  old  stories 
and  live  again  in  the  days  of  yore,  growing  ever 
dimmer,  till  the  next  reunion  would  endow  the  past 
with  reviviscence  and  it  would  glow  anew  and  the 
dull  present  would  sink  out  of  sight.  He  was  barely 
ensconced  in  his  chair  when  Miss  Dean  gaily  accosted 
him. 

"Yes, — here  we  are,  indeed,  Major, — you  remem 
ber  me? — Miss  Hildegarde  Dean, — but  you  ought 
to  have  been  on  deck  when  we  were  trying  to  get 
away.  It  was  just  like  an  attempt  to  jump  over  a 
fence  by  pulling  on  the  rosettes  of  your  slippers, — 
wasn't  it,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney?" 

"Oh,  she  didn't  witness  it,"  said  Floyd-Rosney 
hastily,  reminded  of  his  displeasure  because  of  her 
tardiness.  "Too  late, — as  usual.  She  closely  re 
sembles  Athelstane  the  Unready.  You  remember 
the  Saxon  nobleman,  Major  Lacey." 

His  bland  patronage  was  a  bit  more  insufferable 
than  his  obvious  disapproval,  if  such  comparison 
be  attempted,  for  the  casual  stranger  had  done 
naught  to  incur  his  unwelcome  benignities,  whereas 
his  wife,  by  consenting  to  become  his  wife,  had 
brought  her  doom  upon  her  own  head. 

The  receptivity  of  the  object  of  his  grace  in  this 
instance  was  blunted  by  misunderstanding.  "Well, 
now,"  the  Major  replied,  knitting  his  brows,  "there 
was  a  foreign  nobleman — a  native  of  Saxony, — for 
a  time  on  the  staff  of  General  Lancaster  while  I, 
too,  was  a  member  of  his  military  family.  This 
stranger  was  eager  to  see  our  artillery  in  action, — 
greatly  interested  in  the  Catling  gun, — it  was  new, 
then,  invented  by  a  gentleman  from  North  Carolina. 
But  I  don't  remember  that  the  officer's  name  was 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          15 

Athelstane, — my  memory  is  not  so  good  as  it  once 
was, — his  name  has  escaped  me.  But  he  had  been 
a  lieutenant  of  the  Line  in  his  own  country, — light 
artillery." 

Colonel  Kenwynton  observed  Floyd-Rosney's 
satiric  smile  and  resented  it.  He  would  not  suffer 
the  matter  to  rest  here.  "Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  is 
alluding  to  a  character  in  one  of  the  Waverley 
novels,  Major,"  he  said  tactfully. 

"Eh?  Oh,  I  remember,  now, — I  remember,— 
Ivanhoe, — Athelstane  of  Coningsburgh,"  the  Ma 
jor  replied  casually.  "But  I  was  thinking  of  that 
foreign  nobleman  from  Saxony, — much  impressed 
by  the  Catling  gun  in  action." 

The  war  was  all-in-all  with  the  Major. 

Miss  Hildegarde  Dean  suddenly  rose  and,  with 
her  swinging  athletic  gait,  walked  across  the  deck 
and  seated  herself  in  a  chair  beside  the  Major.  He 
was  conscious,  of  course,  of  an  approach  and  a  new 
proximity,  but  whose  presence  it  was  and  of  what 
intent  he  could  not  divine.  He  turned  his  sightless 
face  toward  his  unseen  neighbor,  expressive  of  a 
courteous  abeyance,  ready  and  reciprocal  toward 
the  advance  were  it  charged  with  a  meaning  for  him, 
yet  with  a  dignity  of  reserve  in  awaiting  it.  He, 
of  course,  could  not  see  Hildegarde  smiling  at  him 
so  brightly  that  one  must  needs  deplore  afresh  his 
affliction  which  debarred  him  from  such  suffusive 
and  gracious  radiance. 

"Major  Lacey,"  she  began  blithely,  "I  have  just 
lived  for  this  moment.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  ex 
actly  how  your  grandmother — now  that  is  your  great- 
niece  Elodie  Lacey's  great,  great  stupendously 
great  grandmother, — Elodie  is  a  chum  of  mine  and 


16         THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

a  precious  monkey-fied  thing."  (The  Major's  eye 
brows  were  elevated  doubtfully  at  this  description 
of  his  young  relative,  but  the  tone  was  one  of  ap 
proval  and  affection  and  he  took  the  compliment  on 
trust.)  "We  have  such  gay  old  times  together,"  in 
a  burst  of  reminiscent  enthusiasm.  "But  now  about 
your  grandmother's  romance.  How  did  she  happen 
to  marry  the  Revolutionary  lieutenant  and  not  the 
rich  English  baronet  whom  she  sent  away  in  despair. 
Elodie  delights  in  telling  the  story, — all  about  the 
fox-chase  and  all — but  she  mixes  things  up  so  with 
a  piece  of  the  white  brocade  of  the  wedding  dress 
that  she  treasures  and  the  carved  ivory  fan  and  the 
white  satin  slippers  and  she  owns  the  whole  bertha 
too — it  is  Honiton, — lovely  lace,  but  out  of  style 
now, — that  one  can't  get  at  the  details  for  the  milli 
nery.  A  rational  account  of  the  whole  affair  would 
be  as  sentimental  and  exciting  as  a  novel.  Take  a 
turn  with  me  up  and  down  the  guards,  Major,  and 
justify  your  grandmother's  choice.  I  am  as  steady 
as  a  rock,  and  this  ship  is  not  going  to  pitch  and 
toss  among  the  breakers  on  this  sand-bar, — eh,  Cap 
tain  Disnett?"  with  an  arch  smile  over  her  shoulder. 
The  old  man's  stick  was  tremulously  feeling  the 
way  as  he  arose.  Then  she  passed  her  arm  through 
his,  and  moved  forward  at  a  measured  pace,  with 
the  other  hand  deftly  putting  out  of  the  way  chairs 
that  might  have  otherwise  blocked  their  progress. 
Colonel  Kenwynton  looked  on  with  a  benignant 
smile,  for,  presently,  their  slow  and  wavering  march 
up  and  down,  the  old  blind  soldier,  supported  be 
tween  the  radiant  young  beauty  and  his  stout  cane, 
was  interrupted  by  bursts  of  laughter,  genuine  and 
hearty,  such  as  he  had  not  enjoyed  for  many  a  day. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST  17 

Then  ensued  deep  and  earnest  narrative,  entangled 
in  such  a  whirl  of  questions  as  would  imply  that 
Miss  Hildegarde  Dean  had  never  before  heard  of 
the  great  battle  of  Shiloh,  and,  indeed,  save  that 
she  had  once  been  of  an  excursion  party  that  had 
visited  the  famous  site,  she  would  have  scarcely  re 
membered  its  name.  But  she  was  gifted  with  a  keen 
and  enduring  observation,  and  ever  and  anon  she 
broke  into  his  detail  of  special  incidents, — the  fall  of 
noted  officers,  the  result  of  intrepid  charges,  the  lo 
cation  of  certain  troops, — to  describe  the  monuments 
that  now  marked  the  spot,  their  composition,  their 
approximate  measurements,  their  inscriptions,  and 
her  opinion  of  the  general  effect,  with  such  gusto  as 
to  incite  a  revival  of  recollection  and  to  recall  an 
episode  or  two  of  that  momentous  event  which  had 
eluded  till  now  his  comprehensive  memory. 

"That  is  a  lovely,  lovely  girl,"  said  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton  to  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  as  he  contemplated 
the  incongruous  cronies. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  acceded  with  graceful  alacrity, 
"but  she  should  not  trifle  with  the  affections  of  the 
venerable  Major." 

"Perhaps  the  venerable  Major  is  a  bit  of  a  flirt 
himself";  the  flavor  of  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney's  pleas 
antry  was  acrid  to  the  taste. 

"Why,  I  should  not  call  that  'flirting,'  on  her 
part,"  said  the  matter-of-fact  captain  of  the  steam 
boat.  "I  have  known  her  since  she  was  that  high," 
— he  indicated  with  his  right  hand  a  minute  stature, 
— "her  uncle  has  a  plantation  down  here  a  bit  and 
she  and  her  mother  have  often  been  passengers  of 
the  Cherokee  Rose.  She  was  always  just  of  that 
kind,  thoughtful  disposition." 


18          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

For  the  old  Major  was  laughing  on  keys  of 
mirth  so  long  disused  that  they  had  fallen  out  of  tune 
and  accord  with  the  dominant  tones  of  his  voice, 
as  if  in  another  moment  he  might  burst  into  tears. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  exactly  'flirting,' — only  a  bit 
of  her  universal  fascination  system,"  said  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney,  with  her  chin  in  the  air. 

"I  shouldn't  think  she  pursues  any  sort  of  sys 
tem, — she  seems  all  spontaneity.  She  is  incapable 
of  calculation,"  said  young  Ducie. 

Once  more  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  flushed  unaccount 
ably,  but  she  said,  lightly,  "I  perceive  that  you  are 
profoundly  versed  in  that  most  difficult  science,  the 
knowledge  of  human  nature." 

uYou  do  me  too  much  honor,"  he  replied,  look 
ing  not  at  her  but  at  his  cigar  as  he  flipped  off  the 
ash.  "It  requires  a  very  superficial  observation  to 
discern  that  she  is  as  open  and  undesigning  as  the 
day." 

"For  my  own  part  I  think  the  day  is  particularly 
enigmatic,"  she  retorted  with  her  scathing  little 
laugh,  that  yet  was  so  sweetly  keyed.  "I  think  it 
has  something  in  reserve,  especially  obnoxious  for 


us." 


"So  it  seems  that  you,  too,  are  a  profound  ob 
server,  and  that  meteorological  phenomena  are  your 
province,"  her  husband  ponderously  adopted  her 
method  of  persiflage.  Then  he  added  pointedly  "I 
beg  you  to  observe  it  was  not  I  that  initiated  the 
personal  tone  of  this  talk." 

He  rose  with  his  pervasive  suggestion  of  a  lordly 
ill-humor,  which  enabled  one  to  realize  how  grievous 
it  was  to  be  alone  with  him  and  privileged  to  note  the 
workings  of  his  disaffected  and  censorious  moods. 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST          19 

He  strolled  casually  off,  and  began  to  talk  at  some 
little  distance  to  one  of  the  several  passengers  about 
the  price  of  cotton  and  the  disposition  of  the  planters 
to  hold  it  back  from  the  market  for  a  rise. 

Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  and  Mr.  Ducie  were  left 
seated  near  each  other  amidst  a  cluster  of  vacant 
chairs.  With  that  peculiar  clarity  of  the  twilight 
air  when  there  is  no  mist  every  detail  of  this  lim 
ited  world  was  visible  with  special  distinctness,  as 
if  there  were  no  insufficiency  of  light,  but  one  looked 
through  amber  glasses; — the  slate-tinted  lowering 
sky,  the  ceaseless  silent  flow  of  the  vast  murky  river, 
the  high  bank  so  far  above  the  water  at  this  low  stage 
that  the  grassy  levee,  an  elevation  of  prominent  em 
phasis  in  so  level  a  country,  was  far  withdrawn  and 
invisible  from  this  point  of  view.  There  was  on 
the  bank  a  swamper's  hut  perched  on  tall  grotesque 
supports  to  escape  inundation  in  the  rise  of  the  river, 
which  gave  some  idea  of  the  height  of  the  flood- 
level  in  times  of  high  water.  The  red  glow  from  the 
open  door  of  the  cabin  pulsed  like  the  fluctuating 
fires  of  an  opal,  and  thus  intimated  that  a  mist  was 
insidiously  beginning  to  rise.  There  was  no  other 
token  of  life  in  the  riparian  borders, — no  token  on 
the  broad  spread  of  the  river,  save  that  a  tiny  craft, 
a  dugout,  was  slowly  making  its  way  across  the  tor 
tured  currents, — seemingly  an  insignificant  object, 
for  who  could  imagine  it  was  freighted  with  grim 
Fate?  The  moment  was  of  peculiarly  lonely  inti 
mations  and  she  spoke  abruptly. 

"By  your  leave  I  shall  make  the  conversation  even 
more  personal."  Then,  with  an  intent  gaze,  "Where 
is  your  brother? — and  what  is  he  doing?" 

Adrian   Ducie   flushed  deeply,   looking  both   af- 


20          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

fronted  and  indignant.  Then  he  replied  in  his 
wonted  vein:  uYou  do  not  know  but  that  I  am  my 
brother, — you  could  not  distinguish  one  of  us  from 
the  other  to  save  your  life." 

"Oh,  yes,  the  difference  is  obvious  to  me,"  she 
exclaimed  in  agitated  tones.  "Besides,  Randal 
would  have  spoken, — he  would  have  greeted  me. 
When  you  evidently  did  not  recognize  me  I  was  sure 
that  you  were  the  one  I  had  never  seen." 

"Doubtless,  Randal  would  have  rejoiced  to  offer 
you  the  compliments  of  the  season."  He  could  not 
altogether  maintain  his  self-control  and  his  voice  had 
a  tense  note  of  satire. 

She  cast  upon  him  a  quick  upbraiding  glance. 
Then,  as  if  with  an  afterthought:  "I  am  aware  that 
you  must  resent  my  course  toward  Randal." 

"Oh,  no, — not  at  all, — though  it  would  scarcely 
be  courteous  to  say  that  I  congratulate  him  upon 
your  inconstancy.  But  when  a  lady  plays  a  man 
out  within  a  fortnight  of  their  anticipated  marriage 
with  no  reason  or  provocation,  his  relatives  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  lament  his  escape.  Pardon 
my  blunt  phrase  for  its  sincerity,  since  I  am  no  ar 
tist  in  words,  and  this  discussion  has  taken  me  by 
surprise." 

She  flushed  hotly,  feeling  arraigned  for  having 
introduced  the  inappropriate  subject.  Yet  she  per 
sisted:  "Oh,  you  do  not  understand,"  she  said  in  in 
creasing  agitation.  "You  haven't  the  temperament, 
I  can  see,  to  make  subtle  deductions." 

"Well,  if  Randal  has  such  a  temperament  as  you 
seem  disposed  to  credit  him  with, — or  to  discredit 
him  with,  if  I  may  appraise  the  endowment, — I  am 
happy  to  say,  in  reply  to  your  kind  inquiries,  that  his 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          21 

subtlety  has  not  affected  his  health  or  spirits.  He 
is  in  fine  fettle  and  as  happy  as  he  deserves  to  be. 
As  to  the  rest,  he  is  much  absorbed  in  business, — 
in  fact,  he  is  in  a  fair  way  to  make  a  fortune.  He 
is  of  a  speculative  turn  and  has  always  been  pecu 
liarly  lucky.  Randal  is  something  of  a  gambler." 

"No,  never,"  she  interrupted  hastily,  "Randal  was 
never  a  gambler." 

He  revolted  at  her  tone  of  defense  and  arroga- 
tions  of  superior  knowledge.  He  could  not  restrain 
a  smile  of  sarcastic  rebuke  as  he  retorted:  "Oh,  of 
course  I  meant  only  in  a  commercial  way.  He  is 
bold  and  takes  chances  that  would  deter  many  men. 
He  has  great  initiative." 

"We  have  been  abroad  so  long  that  I  had  lost 
sight  of  him  altogether,"  she  said  in  embarrassment. 

The  subject  was  infinitely  distasteful  to  him  but 
its  sensitive  avoidance  would  seem  a  disparagement 
of  his  slighted  brother.  His  fraternal  affection 
nerved  him  to  complete  the  response  she  had  elicited. 

"Randal  has  made  a  'ten  strike'  several  times,  and 
has  a  long  lease  of  some  fine  land  that  this  year  has 
produced  a  stunning  crop  of  cotton.  He  has  had  a 
rare  chance,  too,  to  buy  a  standing  crop,  and,  of 
course,  he  took  it  in.  The  planter  had  shot  a  man, — 
very  unpopular  affair, — and  had  to  quit  the  coun- 
try." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  realized  how  meager  were 
these  scanty  graces  of  opportunity  in  comparison 
with  Floyd-Rosney's  magnificent  fortune,  but  he 
would  not  seem  to  recognize  the  fact.  He  would 
not  minimize  his  brother's  lot  in  life  as  too  small 
for  her  consideration,  since,  with  an  avid  curiosity 
and  interest,  she  had  sought  information. 


22          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She 
had  achieved  a  startling  and  florid  success  in  her 
brilliant  marriage,  a  girl  of  very  limited  means.  But 
this  temperate,  conventional  atmosphere,  the  oppor 
tunities  of  people  of  moderate  resources  and  high 
lineage,  was  her  native  element,  and  somehow  it  ex 
erted  a  recurrent  fascination  upon  her  at  the  mo 
ment,  it  had  the  charm  of  old  associations  forever 
relinquished.  The  joy  of  effort,  of  laborious  ac 
quisition,  the  splendor  of  superior  capacity,  of  trying 
conclusions  with  Fate  could  never  be  hers  to  share, 
but  she  felt  it  was  fine  to  ride  at  Fortune  with  lance 
in  rest  as  in  the  jousts  of  some  great  tourney.  She 
listened  wistfully  to  the  simple  annals  of  agricultural 
ventures  so  familiar  to  her  early  experience,  with  the 
sentiment  of  gazing  through  barred  gates, — she,  to 
whom  all  the  world  was  open. 

"I  am  glad  to  know  that  Randal  is  well  and 
happy,"  she  said  at  length.  "You  may  think  it 
strange  that  I  should  introduce  this  topic  with  you, — 
and  you  not  even  an  acquaintance." 

She  paused  to  give  him  space  for  a  disclaimer, 
but  he  was  rancorous  on  this  theme, — he  would  not 
make  it  easy  for  her.  "No,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney, " 
he  said  gravely,  "nothing  that  you  could  do  would 
seem  strange  to  me." 

She  was  accustomed  to  deference,  apart  from  the 
sullen  tyranny  of  her  husband,  and  this  experience 
of  conjugal  life  was  only  within  the  last  five  years. 
She  scarcely  knew  how  to  dispense  with  the  phrase, 
the  smile,  the  bow,  which,  however  little  genuine, 
respectfully  annotated  and  acquiesced  in  her  dis 
course.  Adrian  Ducie's  blunt  rebuke, — it  did  not 
affect  her  as  discourtesy,  for  it  was  too  sincere — his 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          23 

obvious  hatred  of  her,  not  only  of  her  course,  his 
absolute  lack  of  confidence  or  approval,  the  impossi 
bility  of  winning  him  even  to  a  modicum  of  neu 
trality  baffled  her.  She  was  losing  her  composure, 
— the  threads  of  her  intention.  Her  eyes,  looking 
at  him  wistfully,  large  and  lustrous,  despite  the  clos 
ing  dusk,  pleaded  with  him  for  help.  When  the 
sound  of  the  dynamo  began  to  pulse  on  the  stillness, 
the  electric  lights  flared  out  on  the  deck  as  well  as 
in  the  saloon,  and  showed  that  those  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  He  met  their  glance  calmly  with  un 
concern.  He  had  not  caused  her  grief.  This  evi 
dent  attitude  of  mind  flung  her  back  on  her  pride, 
her  own  individuality.  In  the  supreme  crisis  of 
her  life  she  was  arguing  within  herself,  she  had 
exerted  her  feminine  prerogative  of  choice,  and 
this  in  the  manner  that  best  suited  her.  He  should 
not  sit  in  judgment  thus  on  the  justice  of  her  de 
cisions,  on  her  line  of  conduct,  and  she  wondered 
at  her  meekness  that  had  permitted  him  to  take  this 
position,  that  had  made  his  standpoint  possible.  She 
sought  to  rally  her  self-control,  and  then  she  said, 
in  her  clear-cut  enunciation: 

"Thank  you  very  much, — the  idea  occurred  to  me 
when  I  saw  you  this  afternoon  that  I  had  here  an 
opportunity  which  I  have  long  sought." 

She  glanced  about  among  the  shadows,  bulkier, 
blacker,  because  of  the  keenness  of  the  electric  glare, 
as  if  she  feared  observation  or  interruption.  The 
piano  in  the  saloon  was  beginning  to  strum  "Oh,  rosy 
dreams!"  with  a  disregard  of  accidentals  calculated 
to  give  the  nightmare  to  the  fellow-passengers  of  the 
performer.  The  perfume  of  cigars  floated  down 
from  the  hurricane  deck — Ducie's  was  dead  in  his 


24          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

hand.  A  dreary  cow  on  the  lower  deck  seemed  to 
have  just  discovered  that  she  was  in  process  of  ship 
ment  and  was  mournfully  lowing  for  her  calf  a  hun 
dred  miles  or  more  up-stream.  Deep  guttural  voices 
of  roustabouts  rose  in  jocose  altercation  for  a  mo 
ment  from  the  depths  of  the  boiler  deck,  and  then  all 
was  silent  again. 

"I  have  long  sought  an  opportunity  to  restore  to 
Randal  one  of  his  gifts,  overlooked  at  the  time  that 
I  returned  the  others.  I  found  it  afterward,  and 

was  embarrassed, — shocked,  in  fact ~"  she 

paused  abruptly. 

"There  was  the  registered  mail,  or  the  express, 
I  suppose,"  he  suggested  coolly. 

"I  wanted  to  explain."  She  felt  her  face  flame. 
"It  was  of  intrinsic  value  other  than  sentimental." 

" which  was  great,"  he  interpolated. 

"And,"  she  sturdily  held  to  her  purpose,  "I  did 
not  wish  him  to  misinterpret  my  motive  in  keeping 
it." 

"You  could  not  write  to  him?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  could  not  write  to  him." 

"I  can  easily  understand  that,"  he  fleered,  full  of 
vicarious  rancor. 

"It  is  a  bauble  in  the  shape  of  a  key — it  is  set  with 
a  large  diamond  and  a  circle  of  rubies.  It  was  un 
derstood  between  us  as  the  key  of  his  heart,"  she 
could  but  falter  at  the  revelation  of  the  forlorn  little 
sentimentalities,  shallow  of  root  and  wilted  in  the 
sun  of  a  sudden  blaze  of  prosperity.  "And  I  kept 
it,"  she  quavered. 

"Randal  would  never  think  of  the  diamond  and 
rubies,"  he  said,  reaching,  indeed,  the  limit.  "You 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          25 

have  too  many  jewels,  doubtless,  for  your  motive  to 
be  misconstrued." 

There  was  a  moment  of  dead  silence.  "He  could 
never  have  said  that,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  with  anger.  "He  is  not  in  the  least  like 
you.  I  hate  you  for  looking  like  him." 

"Thank  you  for  dispensing  with  ceremony  and 
telling  me  this  on  so  short  an  acquaintance.  It  is 
more  than  evident  that  you  like  neither  of  us  over 
much.  May  I  ask  what  are  the  commands  you  de 
sign  to  lay  upon  me,  for  if  you  have  no  more  to  say 
I  should  be  glad  to  withdraw,  with  your  kind  permis 
sion." 

"Only  this, — that  you  will  take  this  valuable 
which  I  chance  to  have  with  me  and  give  it  to  him, — 
explaining  that  there  was  no  sentimental  motive  in 
my  retention  of  it,  only  the  accident  of  overlooking 
it  at  a  moment  of  great  commotion." 

He  remembered  that  this  event  was  the  famous 
nuptials  that  filled  the  countryside  with  eclat,  and  the 
metropolitan  newspapers  with  the  names  of  the 
guests  of  distinction  and  the  description  of  their 
jewels  and  gowns.  To  him,  to  whom  the  journals 
had  been  sent  in  France,  and  to  his  brother,  this 
tawdry  phase  of  display  cheapened  the  marriage  and 
lowered  it,  and  that  it  was  the  splendid  superstruc 
ture  on  the  ruins  of  the  heart  of  the  jilted  lover  did 
not  serve  to  further  commend  it. 

"I  wonder  that  you  remembered  to  return  any  of 
the  little  trinkets,"  he  remarked.  "But,  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney,  you  must  forgive  me  for  declining  to  repair 
your  negligence.  I  really  cannot  undertake  your 
commission.  The  relations  between  my  brother  and 
me  are  peculiarly  tender.  All  my  life  I  can  remem- 


26         THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

her  almost  in  every  scene  that  other  self,  from  the 
time  when  we  were  little  toddlers  in  our  red  coats 
and  toboggan  caps." 

He  paused,  for  he  saw,  at  the  moment,  almost 
with  the  distinctness  of  actuality,  the  swift  little  im 
age  of  himself  and  its  replica  in  childhood  days,  scut 
tling  about  among  the  vacant  chairs  of  the  deserted 
deck,  snow-balling  each  other  in  juvenile  joviality 
in  some  forgotten  winter.  He  caught  himself  and 
went  on.  "My  brother  is  dear  to  me  and  I  to  him, 
and  I  will  not  allow  the  shadow  you  cast  to  come 
between  us." 

"And  you  will  do  nothing  in  the  matter?"  Her 
voice  was  keen  with  its  plaint  of  surprise  and  dis 
appointment. 

"Oh,  you  will  easily  find  another  emissary,"  he 
said,  rising  and  standing  with  one  hand  on  the  back 
of  his  chair.  "Permit  me  to  suggest  that  you  give 
the  thing  to  Miss  Dean.  She,  evidently,  is  very  well 
acquainted  with  Randal.  Tell  her  that  it  is  the  key 
to  his  heart,  and,  perhaps,  she  may  unlock  it." 

And  with  that  he  lifted  his  hat  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER   II 

IN  all  riparian  estimation  the  grotesque  plight 
of  a  craft  stranded  is  more  or  less  a  catastrophe. 
Even  in  this  sequestered  nook  spectators  were  not 
slow  to  mark,  at  a  distance,  the  grounding  of  the 
Cherokee  Rose  in  the  afternoon  and  to  discuss  the 
magnitude  and  the  management  of  the  mishap. 

The  earliest  of  these  were  two  men  summoned 
from  the  swamper's  shack  situated  in  the  "no  man's 
land,"  thrown  out  between  the  levee  and  the  high 
precipitous  bank  of  the  river.  It  was  mounted  on 
four  pillars  some  twelve  feet  in  height,  and  was  en 
tered  by  means  of  a  ladder  placed  at  the  door. 
These  supports  not  long  before  had  been  stanch 
cotton-wood  trees,  and  their  roots  still  held  fast  in 
the  ground  despite  its  frequent  submergence.  Hav 
ing  been  sawn  off  at  a  height  that  lifted  the  little 
domicile  to  a  level  with  the  crest  of  the  levee  beyond, 
they  served  so  far  to  render  the  hearth-stone  safe 
from  the  dangers  of  flood.  If  the  river  should  rise 
above  this  limit,  why  then  was  the  deluge,  indeed, 
and  the  swamper's  hut  must  needs  share  with  the 
more  opulent  and  protected  holdings  the  common 
disaster  of  the  overflow. 

The  two  men  were  standing  on  the  brink  of  the 
high  bank,  using  alternately  a  binocle  of  elaborate 
finish  and  great  power.  The  swamper,  however, 
presently  relinquished  the  glass  altogether  to  his 

27 


28          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

companion,  who  was  evidently  a  stranger  and  of  a 
much  higher  condition  in  life.  He  seemed  to  de 
velop  an  inexplicable  agitation  as  he  continued  to 
gaze  through  the  lenses  across  the  tawny  expanse 
of  the  river  at  the  big,  white  bulk  of  the  steamer 
stranded  on  the  bar,  and  the  groups  of  passengers 
on  the  decks,  easily  differentiated  as  they  loitered  to 
and  fro.  His  breath  was  coming  in  quick  gasps, — he 
was  suddenly  a-quiver  in  every  fiber.  All  at  once 
he  broke  forth  as  if  involuntarily:  "Colonel  Ken- 
wynton,  by  God!" 

There  was  a  sort  of  frenzy  of  recognition  in  the 
tense  bated  tones,  yet  incredulity  too,  as  one  might 
doubt  the  reality  of  a  vision,  though  incontestably 
perceived.  The  swamper  watched  in  silence,  patient, 
curious,  sinister,  this  manifestation  of  emotion.  It 
seemed  to  surprise  him  when  the  stranger  spoke  to 
him  with  a  certain  unthinking  openness. 

"Did  you  notice, — could  you  distinguish — a  gen 
tleman  there  on  the  hurricane  deck  walking  to  and 
fro, — his  hair  is  white, — oh,  how  strange  1 — his 
hair  is  white!" 

He  asked  the  question  in  an  eager,  excited  way, 
his  dark,  distended  eyes  wildly  agaze. 

"Yes,  sir, — oh,  yes,  sir, — I  seen  him  plain,"  the 
swamper  replied  casually,  but  he  did  not  relax  the 
keenness  of  his  inquisitive  observation  of  the 
stranger  beside  him,  nor  even  again  glance  at  the 
boat. 

"Did  you  ever  before  see  him?"  The  question 
was  less  a  gasp  than  a  convulsive  snap, — it  was  ar 
ticulated  in  such  a  paroxysm  of  excitement. 

"Yes,  sir, — oh,  yes,  sir." 

"Do  you  know  his  name?" 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          29 

"Yes,  sir, — oh,  yes,  sir." 

The  swamper's  replies  were  as  mechanical  as  the 
ticking  of  a  clock. 

The  stranger  turned,  lowered  the  binocle  and 
glanced  at  him  with  an  odd  blending  of  animosity 
and  contempt.  The  swamper  was  of  an  aspect 
queerly  disheveled,  water-soaked  and  damaged,  col 
lapsed  almost  out  of  all  semblance  of  humanity.  He 
suggested  some  distorted  bit  of  unclassified  and 
worthless  flotsam  of  the  great  river,  washed  ashore 
in  one  of  its  stupendous  floods  and  left  high  and 
dry  with  other  foul  detritus  when  the  annual  shrink 
age  regained  once  more  low  water  mark.  He  was  an 
elderly  man  with  a  pallid,  pasty  face,  large,  pouch- 
like  cheeks  and  a  sharp  rodential  nose.  His  small, 
bright  eyes  were  so  furtive  of  expression  that  they 
added  to  his  rat-like  intimations  and  he  had  a  long 
bedraggled  grizzled  beard.  He  wore  trousers  of 
muddy  corduroy,  and  a  ragged  old  gray  sweater. 
His  sodden,  diluvian,  pulpy  aspect  would  justify  the 
illusion  that  he  had  been  drowned  a  time  or  two,  re 
suscitated  and  dried  out,  each  immersion  leaving 
traces  in  slime,  and  ooze,  and  water-stains  on  his 
garments  and  character.  He  must  have  seemed  in 
congruous,  indeed,  with  the  acquaintance  he  claimed, 
for  it  was  a  most  commanding  and  memorable  figure 
focused  by  the  lenses. 

"Who  is  he,  then, — what  is  his  name?"  the 
stranger  asked  with  sudden  heat,  as  if  he  fancied 
some  deception  was  practiced  upon  him,  and  evi 
dently  all  unaware  that  he  had  himself,  in  the  sur 
prise  of  the  first  glimpse,  pronounced  aloud  the  name 
he  sought.  His  interlocutor  discerned  his  incredu 
lity  and  replied  with  a  flout. 


30          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"Who?  him?— that  old  blow-hard?  Why  ever' 
body  all  up  an'  down  the  ruver  knows  old  Gunnel 
Kenwynton." 

uGod!"  exclaimed  the  wild-eyed  stranger,  with  a 
most  poignant  intonation,  uto  doubt  my  own  sight, — 
my  own  memory, — my" — he  became  suddenly  con 
scious  of  that  sinister  scrutiny,  so  much  more  dis 
criminating  and  intelligent  than  accorded  with  the 
status  of  the  water-rat  that  it  had  an  inimical  sug 
gestion.  He  broke  off  with  an  abrupt  air  of  expla 
nation.  "I  have  been  under  treatment  for — for — 
an  ocular  difficulty,  my  eyes,  you  know." 

"Edzac'ly,"  exclaimed  the  swamper,  with  a  tone 
of  bland  acceptance  of  the  statement.  "Well,  now, 
Mister,  I  thought  your  eyes  appeared  queer." 

"Do  they?"  asked  the  stranger  with  an  inexplica 
ble  eagerness.  "Have  they  an  odd  expression, — 
to  your  mind?" 

"Why,  I  dunno  ez  I  would  have  tooken  notice  of 
it,  but  my  darter-in-law,  Jessy  Jane,  remarked  it  las' 
night.  She  is  mighty  keen,  though,  Jessy  Jane  is, — 
an'  spies  out  mos'  ever'  think." 

The  stranger  was  a  conventional,  reputable  look 
ing  person,  not  remarkable  in  any  respect  save  for 
that  recurrent  optical  dilatation.  He  was  neatly 
dressed  in  one  of  the  smart  hand-me-down  suits  to 
be  had  anywhere  in  these  times  and  he  wore  a  dark 
derby  hat.  He  was  himself  an  elderly  man,  although 
he  had  a  certain  fresh  pallor  that  bespeaks  an  in 
door  life  and  that  gave  him  an  unworn  aspect  of 
youth.  His  clean-shaven  face  was  notably  delicate, 
but  the  years  were  registered  in  the  fine  script  of 
wrinkles  about  the  eyes  and  were  obvious  to  the  care 
ful  observer.  He  had  dark,  straight,  thin  hair,  and 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          31 

keen  features,  and  there  was  an  intent  look  in  his 
wild,  dark  eyes.  He  cast  over  his  shoulder  so  lower 
ing  a  glance  at  the  daughter-in-law  under  discussion, 
a  young  woman  who  was  sitting  in  the  door  of  the 
cabin,  that  even  at  the  distance  she  marked  the  ex 
pression  of  disfavor,  of  suspicion,  of  resentment 
that  informed  it.  She  could  not  divine  the  nature 
of  their  communication  but,  justifying  old  Josh  Ber- 
ridge's  account  of  her  powers  of  discernment,  she 
knew,  in  some  subtle  way,  that  she  was  its  subject. 
She  tossed  her  head  with  a  flirt  of  indifference  and 
spat  out  on  the  ground  below  her  contempt  for  the 
stranger's  displeasure. 

Her  red  calico  dress  and  her  tousled  mass  of  cop 
per  red  hair  made  a  bit  of  flare  amidst  the  dull  hues 
of  the  somber  scene.  As  she  sat  on  the  elevated 
threshold  at  the  summit  of  the  ladder  that  led  to  the 
door  she  was  dandling  a  muscular  though  small  in 
fant  in  her  arms,  who  with  his  blond,  downy  head 
almost  inverted  twisted  here  and  there  with  motions 
so  sudden  and  agile  that  he  might  have  been  ex 
pected  presently  to  twist  quite  out  of  the  negligent 
maternal  clasp  and  fall  to  the  earth  below.  But, 
suddenly,  she  rose  and,  tossing  the  child  to  her  shoul 
der,  went  within  the  house. 

So  definite  was  the  impression  of  something  ab 
normal  about  the  stranger  that  she  experienced  a 
sentiment  of  relief  when  the  swamper  came  in  to  his 
supper  alone.  "Jessy  Jane,"  he  said,  pausing  in  the 
doorway  and  jerking  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  to 
indicate  the  subject  of  his  discourse,  "that  man  is  as 
queer  a  fish  as  ever  war  cotched.  Says  he  is  waitin' 
fur  a  boat  an'  has  hired  my  old  dugout  an'  is  pad- 


32          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

dling  out  to  that  air  steamboat  whut's  aground  on 
the  sand-bar." 

She  gazed  dully  at  him,  a  big  spoon  in  her  hand 
with  which  she  had  been  lifting  a  mass  of  cat-fish 
from  a  skillet  on  a  red-hot  monkey-stove.  uNuthin' 
queer  in  that  as  I  kin  see, — Hesh  up!"  she  broke 
off  in  jocose  objurgation  of  the  baby  who  was  beam 
ing  upon  the  supper  table  from  where  he  was  tied  in 
one  of  the  bunks  and  who  lifted  his  voice  vocifer 
ously,  apparently  in  paeans  of  praise  of  the  great 
smoking  cat-fish  spread  at  length  on  a  dish.  "You 
ain't  goin'  ter  have  none, — fish-bone  git  cotched  in 
yer  gullet,  an'  whar-r  would  Tadpole-Wheezie  be 
then."  Resuming  the  conversation  in  her  former 
serious  tone,  " What's  queer  in  waitin'  fur  a  boat? 
Plenty  folks  have  waited  fur  boats,  an'  cotch  'em 
an'  rid  on  'em  too." 

"But  this  feller  is  goin'  ter  cotch  a  boat  what  can't 
go  nowhar.  He  is  right  now  paddlin'  fur  dear  life 
out  to  the  Cherokee  Rose,  old  stick-in-the-mud,  out 
thar  on  the  sand-bar." 

Josh  Berridge  flung  himself  down  in  a  chair  at 
the  half  prepared  table,  and  awaited  there  in  place 
the  completion  of  the  "dishing  up"  of  supper. 

She  stood  eyeing  him  doubtfully,  the  big  spoon 
still  in  her  hand.  "I  wonder  all  them  passengers 
don't  come  ashore,  an'  track  off  through  the  woods, 
like  he  spoke  of  doin'  las'  night  an'  flag  the  train." 

"Gosh,  Jessy  Jane, — it's  a  durned  sight  too  fur. 
Ten  mile,  at  least,  ez  the  crow  flies,  an'  thar  ain't 
no  road  nor  nuthin'." 

He  said  no  more  for  his  mouth  was  full,  and  the 
attention  of  the  woman  was  diverted  by  the  entrance 
of  her  husband,  with  the  declaration  that  he  was  as 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST          33 

hungry  as  a  bear.  He  was  of  a  bulky  presence,  seem 
ing  to  crowd  the  restricted  little  apartment,  which 
was  more  like  the  cabin  of  a  shanty-boat  than  a  room 
in  a  stationary  dwelling.  It  was  of  a  hazy  aspect, 
low-ceiled  and  soot-blackened,  as  shown  by  a  lamp 
swinging  from  the  central  beam,  smoking  por 
tentously  from  an  untrimmed  protrusion  of  charring 
wick.  Two  tiers  of  bunks  were  arranged  nauti- 
cally  on  either  side,  and  the  windows  still  above  were 
small  oblong  apertures,  suggestive  of  cabin  lights 
or  transoms;  perhaps  this  had  been  their  earlier 
use,  for  several  articles  about  the  place  betokened 
an  origin  inapposite  to  the  culture  and  condition  of 
its  occupants.  A  fine  barometer  in  a  shining  ma 
hogany  case  graced  the  wall  near  a  door  leading  to 
an  inner  apartment.  The  handsome  binocular  glass 
lay  on  a  shelf  so  rough  that  the  undressed  wood  of 
fered  an  opportunity  for  splinters  to  every  unwary 
touch.  Each  of  the  pillow-cases  bore  a  rude  patch 
where  the  name  of  a  steamboat  had  been  cut  out, 
and  the  dirty  cloth  on  the  table  was  of  linen  damask 
suited  to  the  requirements  of  the  somewhat  exacting 
traveling  public.  Even  the  bowl  into  which  the 
woman  was  heaping  a  greasy  mass  of  potatoes  and 
pork  from  the  pot  was  of  the  decorated  china  af 
fected  by  the  packet  usage,  and  a  compote  filled  with 
doughy  fat  biscuits  bore  the  title  of  a  steamer  that 
went  to  the  bottom  one  windy  night  some  years  ago. 
Now  and  again  the  ladder  without  would  creak 
beneath  the  weight  of  a  sudden  footfall  when  the 
woman  would  desist  from  her  occupation,  the  big 
spoon  brandished  in  her  hand,  and  her  red  hair  fly 
ing  fibrous  in  the  hot  breath  of  the  stove,  to  mark 
in  eager  excitement  the  entrance  of  first  one  and 


34          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

then  another  figure  that  seemed  evolved  from  the 
falling  night,  cogeners  of  the  gloom  and  the  soli 
tude,  normal  to  the  place  and  the  hour. 

"Ye're  sharp  on  time, — how  did  ye  know  the 
Cher'kee  Rose  had  struck?"  she  cried,  as  a  pallid, 
wiry,  small  man  with  close  cropped  sandy  hair,  wear 
ing  jockey  boots  and  riding  breeches,  with  a  stable 
cap  on  one  side  of  his  head,  climbed  into  view  up 
the  ladder  without. 

He  vouchsafed  her  a  wink  of  his  lashless,  red- 
lidded  left  eye,  in  full  of  all  accounts  of  greeting 
and  reply.  He  stood  flicking  his  boots  with  a  crop 
and  wagged  his  sandy  head  knowingly  at  the  group 
of  men  about  the  stove. 

"I  was  at  Cameron  Landing,  the  last  p'int  she 
teched.  I  went  aboard  an'  seen  her  passenger  list. 
She's  got  some  swell  guys  aboard." 

"Pity,  then,  she  didn't  go  down  when  she  struck," 
said  a  lowering,  square-faced  man,  of  a  half  sailor 
aspect,  the  master  of  a  shanty-boat  lying  snugly  un 
der  the  willows  in  a  bayou  hard  by.  "The  water  on 
this  side  the  bar  is  full  twenty  fathom,  even  at  dead 
low  water." 

"Bless  my  stirrups,  that's  one  hundred  an'  twenty 
feet!"  cried  "Colty"  Connover,  palpably  dismayed 
by  the  loss  of  the  opportunities  of  the  accident. 

"The  wind  is  fixin'  ter  blow,"  said  Daniel  Ber- 
ridge  from  the  table,  with  his  mouth  full,  but  glanc 
ing  up  through  the  open  door  at  the  darkening  skies. 
"Mought  h'ist  the  old  tub  off  the  tow-head  after 
all's  come  an'  gone." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh,"  said  Connover,  wagging  his 
head  expressively, — "there'd  be  rich  pickings  for 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          35 

true  in  those  passengers'  baggage. "     He  smacked 
his  lips  wistfully. 

For  this  was  a  coterie  of  riverside  harpies  brought 
together  by  the  rumor  of  the  disaster  in  the  hope  of 
the  opportunity  of  spoils.  They  had  long  infested 
the  riparian  region,  not  only  baffling  the  law  and 
justice  but  even  evading  suspicion.  Their  operations 
were  cleverly  diversified,  restricted  to  no  special  lo 
cality.  By  the  aid  of  the  swift  and  inconspicuous 
dug-out  an  emissary  could  drop  down  the  river 
twenty  miles  and  abstract  a  bale  of  cotton,  from  a 
way-landing,  awaiting  shipment,  or  roll  off  a  couple 
of  boxes  or  a  barrel,  under  cover  of  the  water,  till 
such  time  as  the  shanty-boater  should  find  it  practi 
cable  to  fish  them  thence  some  dark  midnight, — while 
the  suits  for  their  non-delivery  dragged  on  in  the 
courts  between  the  shipper  and  the  consignee.  A 
bunch  of  yearlings  driven  off  from  the  herds  that 
were  wont  to  be  grazed  in  the  "open  swamp" 
throughout  seasons  of  drought  when  these  dense 
low-lying  woodlands  are  clear  of  water,  would  seem 
the  enterprise  of  professed  cattle  thieves,  and  sus 
picion  pointed  to  rogues  of  bucolic  affiliations,  but 
the  beef  had  been  slaughtered  and  salted  and  shipped 
down  the  Mississippi  by  the  small  craft  of  the  tramp 
or  pirate  proclivities  and  sold  in  distant  markets  be 
fore  the  depletion  in  the  numbers  of  the  herd  was 
discovered  by  the  owner. 

The  cunning  and  capacity  that  devised  these  ex 
ploits  tolerated  no  policy  of  repetition.  Never  did 
the  gang  fit  their  feet  into  their  old  tracks.  Thus  the 
thwarted  authorities  failed  of  even  a  clew  to  for 
ward  conviction  and  certain  tempting  baits  dangled 
unnoticed  and  ineffective,  while  the  miscreants  for 


36          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

a  season  went  their  ways  with  circumspection  and 
kept  well  within  the  law.  Only  once  did  they  at 
tempt  the  exploit  of  a  railroad  hold-up,  and  so  en 
tirely  did  it  succeed  that  at  the  mere  recollection 
the  small,  light  gray  eyes  of  the  shanty-boater  nar 
rowed  to  a  mere  slit  as  he  gazed  speculatively  from 
his  chair  across  the  room  and  through  the  open  door 
at  the  great  dim  bulk  of  the  stranded  steamboat, 
lying  there  on  the  bar  in  the  midst  of  the  weltering 
surges  of  deep,  swift  water  on  every  side.  There 
was  no  smoke  from  her  chimneys,  no  stir  now  on 
her  decks,  but  a  series  of  shining  yellow  points  had 
just  begun  to  gleam  from  her  cabin  lights,  and  a  cir 
clet  of  shifting  topaz  reflections  gemmed  the  turgid 
waters.  Purple  and  gray  were  the  clouds;  the  sky 
was  starless  and  blank;  the  great  bare  terraces  of 
the  bank  on  either  side  were  like  a  desert  in  extent, 
uninhabited,  unfrequented.  Anything  more  expres 
sive  of  helplessness  than  the  steamer  aground  it 
were  difficult  to  conceive, — bereft  of  all  power  of 
locomotion,  of  volition,  of  communication. 

"Now,  just  how  many  of  those  'swell  guys'  are 
on  that  boat?"  a  deep  bass  voice  queried. 

The  speaker  was  of  more  reputable  aspect  than 
any  of  the  others.  He  was  the  only  man  in  the 
room  with  a  clean-shaven  jaw  and  wearing  a  coat; 
the  abnormal  size  of  his  right  arm,  visible  under  the 
sleeve,  indicated  the  vocation  of  a  blacksmith.  He 
had  a  round  bullet  head  that  implied  a  sort  of  brute 
force,  and  his  black  hair  was  short  and  close-clipped. 
In  view  of  his  mental  supremacy  and  his  worldly 
superiority  as  a  respectable  mechanic  the  authority 
he  arrogated  was  little  questioned,  and,  as  he  flung 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  tilted  on  the  hind  legs  and 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          57 

fixed  his  sharp  black  eyes  on  the  half  tipsy  jockey, 
Connover  sought  to  justify  his  statement  by  adduc 
ing  proofs. 

"Why,"  still  flicking  his  boots  and  thrusting  his 
stable-cap  far  back  on  his  sparse  sandy  hair,  "there 
is  Edward  Floyd-Rosney  and  family,  and  he  is  a 
millionaire.  You  are  obliged  to  know  that." 

Jasper  Binnhart  nodded  his  head  in  acceptance  of 
the  statement. 

"And,  Lord,  what  a  string  he  had  before  he  sold 
out  when  he  went  abroad.  He  owned  'County  Guy,7 
the  third  son  of  imported  Paladin,  dam  Fortuna, 
blood  bay,  stands  sixteen  hands  high,  such  action." 
He  smote  his  meager  thigh  in  the  abandonment  of 
enthusiasm.  "I  saw  him  in  Louisville  at  the  train 
ing  stables — such  form  1" 

"And  who  else?"  demanded  Binnhart. 

"Why,  a  beautiful  roan  filly — three  years  old — 
Floyd-Rosney  gave  only  three  thousand  dollars  for 
her,  but  speedy !  And  he  owned " 

"Who  else  is  on  that  boat?"  reiterated  Binnhart 
raucously.  "I  don't  want  to  hear  'bout  no  horses, 
without  I'm  on  my  shoeing  stool,"  he  added  with  a 
sneer. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,  of  course."  The  jockey  felt 
the  bit  himself  and  adapted  his  pace  to  the  pressure 
of  control.  It  seems  strange  to  contemplate,  but 
even  such  a  nature  as  his  has  its  aesthetic  element, 
its  aspirations  and  enthusiasms,  its  dreams  and  vicis 
situdes  of  hope.  All  these  just  now  had  a  string  on 
them,  as  he  would  have  phrased  it,  and  were  drag 
ging  in  the  dust.  He  had  ridden  with  credit  in  sev 
eral  events  elsewhere,  but  he  was  the  victim  of  intem 
perance  and  his  weak  moral  endowment  offered  spe- 


38          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

cial  material  for  the  fashioning  of  a  cat's  paw.  It 
was  said  and  believed  that  he  had  "pulled"  more 
than  one  horse  in  a  race,  and  although  this  was  not 
indisputable,  the  suspicion  barred  him  from  the 
employ  of  cautious  turfmen.  In  connection  with 
his  frequent  intoxication,  it  had  brought  him  down 
at  last  to  work  as  a  groom  for  his  daily  bread,  and 
what  was  to  him  more  essential,  his  daily  dram,  in 
a  livery  stable  in  the  little  inland  town  of  Caxton, 
some  ten  or  twelve  miles  distant,  for  there  was  scant 
opportunity  in  view  of  the  stringent  laws  against 
gambling  to  ply  his  vocation  as  a  jockey  in  Missis 
sippi. 

"Oh,  you  are  talkin'  about  the  passenger  list.  The 
Cherokee  Rose  has  sure  got  swells  aboard.  There 
are  Mrs.  Dean  and  Miss  Hildegarde  Dean.  You 
must  have  read  a  deal  about  her  in  the  society  col 
umns  of  the  newspapers.  She  won  hands  down  in 
Orleans  las'  winter.  Reg'lar  favorite,  an'  distanced 
the  field." 

"I  ain't  talkin'  about  the  wimmen,"  said  the 
smith. 

"Well,  mebbe  old  Horace  Dean  ain't  as  rich  as 
some,  but  they  are  dressed  as  winners,  sure.  I  seen 
'em  in  a  box  at  the  horse-show — I  was  there  with 
Stanley's  stable — an'  the  di'monds  Mrs.  Dean  had 
on  mos'  put  out  my  eyes." 

"She  don't  wear  di'monds  on  a  steamboat,  I 
reckon,"  put  in  Mrs.  Berridge.  "Them  I  have  seen 
on  deck  ginerally  don't  look  no  better  'n — 'n — me." 

"But  you  are  a  good-looker,  ennyways,  Mrs.  Ber 
ridge,"  said  the  jockey,  and  he  paid  her  the  tribute 
of  another  facetious  wink. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          39 

"But  the  woman  would  carry  her  diamonds  in  her 
trunk  or  hand-bag,"  suggested  the  shanty-boater. 

"Horace  Dean  ain't  aboard,  eh?  Let  us  have  the 
men's  names,"  said  the  smith.  He  was  turning  the 
matter  over  exactly  as  if  he  had  it  in  some  raw 
material  on  the  anvil  before  him,  striking  it  here  and 
there,  testing  its  malleability,  shaping  it  to  utility. 

"Oh,  well,  there's  one  of  the  Ducies,  the  fellow 
that  has  been  abroad  so  long — registers  from  Lyons, 
France.  Adrian  Ducie." 

The  younger  Berridge  turned  half  around  from 
the  table,  chewing  hard  to  clear  his  mouth  before  he 
spoke  impressively:  "One  of  the  Ducies?  Now 
you  are  coming  to  the  Sure-enoughs !  They  used  to 
own  Duciehurst.  They  did  for  a  fack.  Finest  place 
in  Mississippi;  in  the  world,  I  reckon." 

"But,  used  to  be  ain't  now,  by  a  long  shot,"  said 
Jorrocks,  the  shanty-boater,  sustaining  the  intention 
of  the  investigation.  "No  Ducie  nowadays  would 
be  worth  a  hold-up." 

"This  is  a  young  man?"  Binnhart  queried. 

"Rising  thirty,  I  reckon,"  replied  the  jockey. 

"You  dunno — you  ain't  seen  his  teeth,"  said  Mrs. 
Berridge.  "That's  the  way  you  jockeys  jedge  of 
age."  She  could  be  facetious,  too. 

"Then  there's  old  Colonel  Kenwynton?"  said  Con- 
nover. 

"He  has  got  a  deal  of  fight  left  in  him  yet,"  ob 
served  Binnhart,  reflectively.  "He  would  put  up  a 
nervy  tussle." 

"Yes,  sir,"  corroborated  the  shanty-boater,  with 
emphasis.  "The  devil  himself  will  have  a  tough  job 
when  he  undertakes  to  tow  old  Jack  Kenwynton  in." 

"There   are    several   other  men,   names   I   don't 


40          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

know — dark  horses,"  said  the  jockey  seriously,  sec- 
ing  at  last  the  trend  of  the  discussion. 

Binnhart  was  slowly,  thoughtfully,  shaking  his 
head.  "A  good  many  men,  I  misdoubts.  Then 
there  are  the  captain  and  the  clerks  and  the  mate, 
but  they  would  all  be  took  by  surprise,  an'  mos' 
likely  without  arms." 

uAn'  then  there's  another  man,  besides,"  sug 
gested  the  elder  Berridge.  A  certain  wrinkled 
anxiety  had  corrugated  the  bedraggled  limpness  of 
his  countenance  and  he  was  obviously  relieved  by 
the  effect  of  the  computation  of  the  odds. 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Berridge,  "that  comical 
galoot  what  bided  here  las'  night,  an'  this  evenin' 
hired  our  dugout  an'  paddled  out  to  the  steamboat. 
He  ain't  back  yit."  She  paused  at  the  door  and 
peered  into  the  gathering  gloom. 

"Jessy  Jane,"  cried  her  husband  with  an  accession 
of  interest,  "tell  'em  all  what  you  heard  him  say  las' 
night.  Every  other  word  was  'Duciehurst.' ' 

The  younger  Berridge  was  a  stalwart  fellow,  in 
attire  and  features  resembling  his  father,  save  that 
his  straw-tinted  beard  and  shock  of  hair  were  not 
yet  bleached  by  the  river-damp  and  the  damage  of 
time  to  the  dull  drab  hue  of  the  elder's  locks.  The 
woman  had  evidently  intended  to  reserve  such  values 
as  she  had  discovered  for  the  benefit  of  her  own,  her 
husband  and  his  father.  But  Dan  Berridge,  all  im 
provident  and  undiscerning,  was  gobbling  a  second 
great  supply  of  the  cat-fish,  and  did  not  even  note 
the  expanding  interest  that  began  to  illumine  Binn- 
hart's  sharp  eyes  as  they  followed  her  around  the 
table  while  she  again  set  on  the  platter.  She  sought 
to  gain  time  and  perchance  to  effect  a  diversion  by 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST          41 

inviting  him  to  partake  of  the  meal,  but  he  replied 
that  he  had  eaten  his  supper  already,  "and  a  better 
one,"  he  added  as  he  cast  a  disparaging  glance  at 
the  cloth.  The  rude  jeer  would  have  served  to 
balk  his  curiosity,  one  might  have  thought, — that  in 
resentment  she  would  have  withheld  the  disclosure 
he  coveted.  But  the  jeer  tamed  her.  She  realized 
and  contemned  their  poverty,  and  despised  them 
selves  because  they  were  so  poor.  The  dignity  of 
labor,  the  blessedness  of  content,  the  joy  of  health 
and  strength,  the  relative  values  of  the  gifts  of  life, 
the  law  of  compensation,  no  homilies  had  ever  been 
preached  here  on  these  texts.  She  could  not  con 
trovert  nor  contend.  It  was  indeed  a  coarse,  cheap 
meal  brought  to  the  door  by  the  river,  a  poverty- 
cursed  home  on  its  fantastic  stilts,  where  they  might 
live  only  so  long  as  the  waters  willed,  and  she  was 
all  at  once  ashamed  of  it,  and  of  her  own  compact 
of  rude  comfort  and  quiescence  with  it.  She  had 
a  certain  spirit,  however,  and  when  the  other  visitors 
chuckled  their  enjoyment  of  her  discomfiture  she 
included  them  in  the  invitation  after  this  wise, 
"Mebbe  you-all  ain't  too  proud  to  take  a  snack  with 
us."  The  shanty-boater,  who  permitted  nothing 
good  to  pass  him,  compromised  on  a  slice  of  pork, 
eaten  sandwich-wise,  in  a  split  pone  of  corn-bread 
held  in  his  hands  as  he  crouched  over  the  monkey- 
stove  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Nevertheless, 
she  was  submissive  and  in  some  sort  constrained  to 
respond  when  Binnhart  said  with  a  suave  intonation: 
"Yes,  ma'am,  we  would  like  to  hear  from  you  about 
that  talk  of  Duciehurst." 

"I  dunno  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  still  with  an 


42          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

effort  to  fence;  "oh,  yes,  the  man  jus1  talks  in  his 
sleep,  that's  all." 

"He's  got  secrets,"  said  her  husband,  over  his 
shoulder  to  Binnhart.  He  paused  suddenly  with  an 
appalled  countenance  to  extract  from  his  mouth  a 
great  spiny  section  of  fishbone,  which  seemed  to  have 
caught  on  the  words.  "Tell  on,  Jessy  Jane.  I  can't. 
I'm  eatin'." 

It  was  obviously  useless  to  resist.  "Why,"  she 
said,  "when  the  baby  had  the  croup  las'  night  an* 
kep'  me  up  an'  awake — don't  you  dare  to  look  at 
me  an'  laugh,  you  buzzard!"  she  broke  off  to  speak 
to  the  infant,  who  was  bouncing  and  crowing  jovially 
at  the  end  of  his  tether  where  he  was  tied  in  the 
bunk,  "he  knows  I'm  talkin'  about  him.  Why,  what 
was  I  saying?  Oh,  I  was  in  the  back  room  there, 
an'  the  man  was  sleepin'  in  here.  An'  he  talked, 
an'  talked  in  his  sleep,  loud  fur  true  every  wunst  in 
a  while.  I  wonder  he  didn't  wake  up  everybody  in 
the  house." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Binnhart,  with  a  look 
of  sharp  curiosity. 

"I  didn't  take  time  to  listen  much,"  replied  the 
woman,  fencing  anew.  "Old  'Possum  thar,"  nodding 
at  the  baby,  "looked  like  he'd  choke  every  other  min 
ute.  He'll  smell  of  turkentine  fur  a  month  of  Sun 
days.  I  fairly  soaked  his  gullet  with  that  an* 
coal-oil." 

"A  body  kin  make  money  out  of  other  folks' 
secrets  ef  they  air  the  right  kind  of  secrets."  Binn 
hart  threw  out  the  suggestion  placidly. 

The  woman  hesitated.  She  noted  her  father-in- 
law  behind  the  stove,  almost  collapsing  over  his  pipe, 
so  inert  he  might  scarcely  make  shift  to  fill  it;  her 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST          48 

husband,  his  younger  image,  was  still  at  the  table, 
lazily  chasing  the  last  morsel  of  fish  about  his  greasy 
plate  with  a  bit  of  cornbread.  Little  might  they 
hope  to  metamorphose  the  babble  of  a  dreamer  into 
discoveries  of  value.  Jasper  Binnhart,  on  the  con 
trary,  was  a  man  of  force,  of  action,  the  leader,  the 
prime  mover,  in  every  scheme  that  had  brought  to 
them  some  measure  of  success  and  gain,  and  then, 
too,  would  she  not  be  present,  to  aid,  to  hear,  in 
vested  with  the  mystery  and  controlling  its  preser 
vation. 

She  took  on  the  air  of  retrospective  pondering 
as  she  sank  down  in  a  chair  on  one  side  of  the  table, 
putting  her  bare  elbows  on  the  cloth  and  supporting 
her  chin  in  her  hands.  "Lemme  see,"  she  said,  "ef 
I  kin  call  any  of  his  gabble  to  mind.  "She  glanced 
up  to  find  Binnhart' s  eyes,  contracted  to  mere  points 
of  light,  fixed  upon  her,  and  once  more  she  bent  her 
gaze  on  the  pattern  of  the  damask. 

;  'Twar  mos'ly  'bout  Duciehurst,   all  night,   all 
night.     Duciehurst  was  the  word." 

"That  sounds  like  something  doing,"  Binnhart  re 
marked.  "All  my  life  I  have  heard  of  hidden  money 
at  Duciehurst." 

Jessy  Jane  ceased  to  pose.  She  lifted  her  head 
suddenly  with  the  contempt  of  the  uninformed,  her 
lips  thickening  with  a  sneer.  "Now,  what  fool 
would  put  money  in  that  old  ruined  shell,  instead  of 
a  bank?" 

"Why,  lots  of  folks,  during  the  war,"  explained 
Binnhart.  "The  banks  were  not  open  then,  and 
people  hid  their  vallybles  wherever  they  could. 
After  the  peace  some  things,  here  and  there,  were 
never  found  again." 

* 


44         THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

"Why,  shucks,  Mrs.  Berridge,  the  name  of  Ducie- 
hurst  is  famous  for  hidden  treasure,  has  been  ever 
since  I  could  remember,"  the  shanter-boater  said. 
"You  see,  Major  Ducie  and  two  of  his  sons  were 
killed  in  the  war,  an'  only  one  was  left,  this  passen 
ger's  father."  He  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  bar, 
where  the  boat  lay  so  still  in  the  night,  amidst  its 
element  of  surging  waters.  "This  son,  being  so 
young  at  the  time,  just  a  child,  didn't  know  anything 
about  where  they  had  stowed  the  family  silver  and 
jewels,  and  a  power  of  gold  money,  they  say." 

"The  family  gave  up  the  search  more  than  forty 
years  ago,  and  the  place  was  sold  to  satisfy  a  mort 
gage,"  Binnhart  commented. 

"But  the  river  folks  take  up  the  search  every 
wunst  in  a  while,  an'  go  thar  and  dig  around  the 
walls,"  said  the  younger  Berridge. 

"Sure!"  exclaimed  the  shanty-boater.  "I  have 
been  thar  myself  with  a  git-rich-quick  gang."  He 
leered  humorously  at  the  party  from  behind  the 
stove-pipe.  Presently  he  continued  reminiscently: — 

"Then  pirates  tore  all  the  hearths  up,  mighty 
nigh,  that  night.  They  had  a  stonemason  along, 
with  crowbars  and  chisels,  an'  such  like  tools.  He 
was  a  tombstone  worker,  an'  I  reckon  his  biz 
queered  the  job,  for  we  found  nothing  at  all." 

"  'Tain't  in  a  hearthstone,"  said  the  woman,  sud 
denly.  "Is  there  anything  about  a  house  named  pil 
low?  He  kep'  a-talkin'  about  a  pillow — I  thought 
he  meant  the  one  he  had  his  head  on." 

Jasper  Binnhart  started  as  with  a  galvanic  shock. 
He  suddenly  let  down  the  forelegs  of  his  chair  and 
sat  stiff  and  upright. 

"Pillar?"   he   said,   in   a   curiously  muffled  tone. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          45 

"Has  this  mansion  of  Duciehurst  got  anything  like 
a  porch  with  posts?  I  have  never  seen  the  river 
front  of  the  house." 

"Posts!"  exclaimed  the  younger  Berridge.  "The 
porch  has  got  posts  the  size  of  a  big  gum  tree,  a 
round  dozen,  too,  an'  mighty  nigh  as  high  as  a  gum 
tree."  He  fell  to  steadily  picking  his  teeth  with  a 
fish-bone,  and  idly  riding  his  chair  to  and  fro. 

"What  did  he  say  about  'pillars,'  Mrs.  Berridge?" 
asked  the  blacksmith,  eagerly. 

"He  talked  about  a  base,  an'  a  pilaster,  an'  col 
umns,  an'  a  capital." 

"That's  Jackson,  capital  o'  Miss'ippi,  seat  of  gov 
ernment,  second  to  none  in  the  Union,"  explained  her 
husband. 

"Sometimes  he  would  call  'Archie,  Archie.'  " 

"Lieutenant  Archibald  Ducie  as  sure  as  you  are 
born,"  said  the  shanty-boater,  solemnly.  "He  died 
in  Vicksburg,  an'  he  war  the  one  rumored  to  have 
had  charge  of  hidin'  the  money." 

"This  man  never  said  nothin'  'bout  no  money.  Jes' 
kept  on  'bout  docyments,  an'  a  chist,"  persisted  Mrs. 
Berridge,  incredulously. 

"Money  mought  have  been  in  the  chist,"  remarked 
her  husband. 

"He  war  specially  concerned  'bout  a  'pilaster' — 
he  went  back  to  that  ag'in  an'  ag'in.  He'd  whisper, 
sly  an'  secret,  'in  the  pilaster.'  What  is  a  pilaster?" 

There  was  no  information  forthcoming,  and  she 
presently  resumed,  with  a  drawling  voice  and  a  dis 
pirited  drooping  head.  "He  seemed  to  say  the  docy 
ments  was  there,  though  I  thought  he  meant  some 
thing  about  a  pillow.  I  wish  I  had  paid  mo'  atten 
tion,  though  I  had  never  heard  'bout  a  pot  o'  money 


46          THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

bein'  hid  at  Duciehurst.  I  wish  I  could  git  the  chance 
to  hear  him  talk  agin  in  his  sleep." 

"But  will  he  come  back?"  asked  Binnhart,  eagerly. 

"Sure.  He  said  so  when  he  hired  the  dugout," 
said  the  old  water-rat;  ubut  I  made  him  pay  fust, 
as  much  as  it  is  wuth — two  dollars.  He's  got  plenty 
rocks  in  his  pocket." 

"Well,  I  should  think  he'd  stay  the  night  with  the 
steamboat,  a  man  of  his  sort,"  Binnhart  said.  He 
cast  a  glance  of  gruff  distaste  about  the  squalid  and 
malodorous  place,  reeking  with  the  greasy  smell  of 
fish,  and  the  sullen  lamp.  He  thought  of  the  contrast 
with  the  carpeted  saloon,  the  glittering  chandeliers, 
the  fine  pure  air,  the  propinquity  of  people  of  high 
tone  and  good  social  station.  Strange!  Indeed,  it 
would  seem  that  no  man  in  his  senses  would  resort 
instead  to  this  den  of  thieves  and  cut-throats. 

"He'll  come  back  fast  enough,"  protested  the  elder 
Berridge.  "There's  something  queer  about  that 
man,  though  he  made  no  secret  o'  his  name,  Captain 
Hugh  Treherne." 

"There'll  be  something  mighty  queer  about  me  if 
I  don't  git  a-holt  of  some  of  them  rocks  in  his  pock 
ets  ye  war  tellin'  about,"  declared  the  shanty-boater. 

"What  ailed  him  to  take  out  for  the  steamer?" 
demanded  Binnhart. 

"He  seemed  all  struck  of  a  heap  when  he  seen 
old  Gunnel  Kenwynton  through  the  spy-glass.  He 
claims  he  knows  the  old  Gunnel,"  replied  the  water- 
rat. 

"And  yet  he  is  coming  back  here,"  exclaimed  Binn 
hart,  incredulously.  "I  wish  I  could  have  heard  him 
talk." 

He  rose,  still  with  that  intent  and  baffled  look,  and 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST          47 

went  to  the  door  staring  out  into  the  gloomy  night 
to  descry,  if  he  might,  the  course  of  the  little  craft 
on  the  face  of  the  waters  and  its  progress;  to  can 
vass  the  object  of  the  man  who  wielded  the  paddle 
and  the  nature  of  the  business  he  could  have  with  old 
Colonel  Kenwynton;  and  to  speculate  in  futile  des 
peration  as  to  the  knowledge  he  might  possess  of 
the  storied  treasure  of  Duciehurst,  and  how  this 
secret  might  be  wrested  from  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

THAT  night  Colonel  Kenwynton  had  a  strange 
dream.  He  had  come  to  the  time  of  life  when  he 
had  no  appreciable  future.  His  possibilities  were 
limited  to  the  renewal  of  his  promissory  notes  se 
cured  on  his  mortgaged  lands  and  the  stress  to  feed 
the  monster  debt  with  its  accustomed  interest.  Be 
yond  these  arid  vicissitudes  he  never  looked.  The 
day  bounded  his  scope  of  view.  His  life  lay  in  the 
past,  and  although  the  present  constrained  his  wak 
ing  moments,  all  the  furniture  of  his  dreams  had 
garnished  the  years  come  and  gone.  It  was  not 
strange  to  him,  therefore,  as  he  lay  asleep  in  his 
berth,  that  he  should  hear  in  the  shaking  of  the 
glass-door  of  his  stateroom  that  opened  on  the 
guards  the  clanking  of  sabers.  The  sound  was  loud, 
assertive  in  the  night.  The  wind  had  risen.  Along 
the  convolutions  of  the  ugreat  bends"  it  swirled, 
with  a  wide  breathy  resonance,  the  gusts  seeming 
full  of  gasps.  Now  and  then  the  timbers  of  the 
boat  creaked  and  groaned  and  the  empty  chimneys 
towering  into  the  gloom  of  the  upper  atmosphere 
sometimes  piped  forth  sonorous  blasts.  No  longer 
the  somber  monotony  held  the  sky.  Clouds  were 
rolling  in  tumultuous  surges  from  the  south,  and  the 
wind  fretted  the  currents  into  leaping  turbulence  as 
it  struck  upon  the  waves,  directly  against  the  course 
of  the  waters.  Low  along  the  horizon  pale  light 
nings  flickered.  The  river  became  weirdly  visible 

48 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          49 

in  these  fluctuating  glimmers,  and  anon  there  was 
only  the  sense  of  a  vast  black  abyss  where  it  flowed, 
and  an  overpowering  realization  of  unseen  motion 
— for  it  was  silent,  this  stupendous  concourse  of 
the  waters  of  the  great  valley,  silent  as  the  grave. 
In  the  fitful  illuminations  the  lace-like  summit  of 
the  riparian  forest  would  show  momentarily  against 
the  clouds;  the  big,  inert  structure  of  the  boat,  and 
long  ghastly  stretch  of  the  arid  sand-bar,  would  be 
suddenly  visible  an  instant,  then  as  suddenly  sunken 
into  darkness. 

And  again  and  again  the  door  of  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton's  stateroom  shook  with  a  clatter  in  its  casing. 

He  was  not  a  light  sleeper,  which  is  usual  to  old 
age.  His  robust  physique  was  recruited  by  the 
sound  slumber  that  might  have  accorded  with  a 
score  less  years  than  had  whitened  his  hair.  The 
lightnings,  glimmering  ever  and  anon  through  the 
glass  door  and  into  his  placid,  aged,  sleeping  face — 
that  ere  long  should  sleep  hardly  more  placidly  and 
to  stir  no  more — did  not  rouse  him.  The  violent 
vibrations  of  the  glass  door  would  scarcely  have 
impinged  upon  his  consciousness  save  that  the  sound 
suggested  the  clash  of  sabers.  But  all  at  once 
Colonel  Kenwynton's  whole  being  was  translated 
into  a  day  of  the  past — a  momentous  day.  The  air 
blared  with  a  trumpet's  imperious  mandate;  the 
clank  of  sabers  filled  his  ears,  and  in  the  lightning's 
pale  flare  he  saw,  plainly  against  the  surging  clouds 
of  the  southwest,  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  rid 
den  close  to  his  bridle  rein  in  a  furious  cavalry 
charge  that  broke  the  serried  ranks  of  a  redoubt 
able  square. 


50          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

"Regiment !  Draw — swords!  Trot ! — March! 
Gallop  I— March!  Charge  I— Charge!" 

The  stentorian,  martial  cry  was  filling  the  re 
stricted  spaces  of  the  little  stateroom.  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton,  awakened  by  the  sound  of  his  own  voice, 
had  pulled  himself  up  on  his  elbow  and  was  staring 
in  amazement  at  the  dull,  opaque  black  square  of 
the  glass  door  of  his  stateroom,  which  might  be  only 
discerned  because  the  apartment  was  partially 
illumined  through  the  transom  of  the  opposite  door, 
admitting  the  tempered  radiance  of  the  lights  burn 
ing  all  night  in  the  saloon  within. 

He  was  nettled  as  with  a  sense  of  ridicule.  He 
had  known  an  old  war-horse  that  after  peace  had 
been  degraded  to  cheap  domestic  uses,  but  was  ac 
customed  to  prance  in  futile  senility  and  in  stately 
guise  to  the  sound  of  a  child's  drum.  He  listened 
to  discern  if  his  wild  martial  cry  had  reached  other 
ears.  No — the  scoffers  slept.  Peace  to  their  pil 
lows.  He  grimly  wished  them  rest.  He — he  was 
an  old  man,  an  old  man,  and  not  of  much  account 
any  more,  save  at  the  reunions.  Ah,  it  must  have 
been  the  associations  of  the  reunion  which  resur 
rected  that  face — the  face  of  a  man  to  whom  he 
owed  much,  a  man  but  for  whom  he  would  scarcely 
be  here  now,  laying  his  head  down  in  undisturbed 
slumber.  Once  more  the  similitude  of  the  clank  of 
sabers.  With  the  thought  of  the  possible  ridicule 
should  he  again,  in  his  dreaming,  audibly  refer  this 
noisy  tumult  to  the  memory  of  his  battles — fought 
anew  here  in  the  dim  midnight,  he  leaned  forward 
to  obviate  the  repetition  of  the  sound  and  the  re 
newal  of  the  hallucination.  From  his  berth  he  easily 
reached  the  door  to  the  guards,  flung  it  open,  and 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          51 

lay  down  content  in  the  comparative  quiet.  The 
river  air  was  dank,  but  this  was  on  the  lee  side  of  the 
boat,  and  though  he  could  hear  the  wind  rush  by  he 
could  only  slightly  feel  its  influx  here.  Still  illusions 
thronged  the  night.  The  chimneys  piped  in  trumpet 
tones  to  his  dreams.  The  doors  of  neighboring 
staterooms  clanked  faintly ;  whole  squadrons  rode  by, 
their  sabers  unsheathed,  and  suddenly  he  became 
conscious  of  a  presence  close  at  hand  that  he  could 
not  discern  in  his  sleep.  All  at  once  he  was  stiff, 
vigilant,  expectant,  fired  by  the  pulses  of  a  day  long 
dead! 

uThe  parole,  officer  of  the  day/'  he  gasped,  curi 
ously  waking,  yet  still  in  the  thrall  of  slumber. 

"Shoulder  to  shoulder,"  came  in  a  shivering 
whisper  from  the  twilight  of  the  stateroom. 

Suddenly  impressed  with  the  reality  of  the  ex 
perience  the  old  man,  agitated,  almost  speechless, 
breathless,  struggled  up  on  his  elbow. 

"Why,  Captain,"  he  began,  in  a  piping  travesty 
of  his  wonted  sonorous  greeting,  "when  did  you 
come  aboard?" 

"Colonel,"  said  the  man  standing  by  the  bed,  and 
even  the  twilight  glimmer  of  the  room  showed  the 
wild  light  in  his  eyes,  "you  haven't  forgotten  the 
day  when  'Shoulder  to  Shoulder'  was  the  parole?" 

"Never — !  Never!"  Colonel  Kenwynton  clasped 
his  hand  on  the  visitor's  hand.  "But  for  you  on 
that  day  I  should  have  been  these  forty  odd  years 
in  hell." 

"Then  follow  me.  I  have  something  to  say.  It 
must  be  in  private — something  to  disclose.  You 
can  trust  me,  Colonel — Shoulder  to  Shoulder!" 

"Trust  you?    To  the  death — Shoulder  to  Shoul- 


52          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

der!"     Colonel  Kenwynton  cried,  in  a  fervor  of  en 
thusiasm. 

Nevertheless  he  was  chilled  while  he  hastily  half 
dressed  and  emerged  into  the  dank  obscurity  of  the 
guards.  His  hand  trembled  as  he  laid  it  on  the 
stair  rail.  uAn  old  man,"  his  lips  were  involuntarily 
formulating  the  words,  as  he  followed  his  guide, 
who  was  descending  to  the  lower  deck.  "An  old 
man,"  and  he  drew  his  overcoat  about  him. 

Colonel  Kenwynton  was  born  to  authority  and 
had  had  the  opportunities  of  command.  But  his 
martial  experience  had  taught  him  also  to  obey,  and 
when  he  had  once  accepted  a  mandate  he  did  not 
hesitate  nor  even  harbor  an  independent  thought. 
With  his  soft,  broad  felt  hat  drawn  far  over  his 
brows,  down  the  stairs  thumped  his  groping  old 
feet,  doggedly  active.  The  wind  was  surging  amidst 
the  low  clouds  which  were  flying  before  the  blast 
in  illimitable  phalanxes  in  some  distraught  panic  of 
defeat.  There  must  have  been  a  moon  lurking  be 
yond  their  rack  and  rout,  for  the  weird  night  land 
scape  was  strangely  distinct,  the  forests  that  re 
stricted  the  horizon  bowed,  and  bent,  and  rose  again 
in  definite  undulations  to  the  successive  gusts.  One 
might  hardly  say  how  the  surface  of  the  far  spread 
of  water  was  discerned,  dark,  vaguely  lustrous,  with 
abysmal  suggestions,  though  with  never  a  glimmer, 
save  where  the  dim  lights  of  the  boat  pierced  the 
glooms  with  a  dull  ray,  here  and  there,  or  lay  along 
ripples  close  at  hand  with  a  limited,  shoaling  glister. 

These  shallows  covered  the  line  of  the  treach 
erous  sand-bar  that  had  been  secretly  a-building  all 
summer  beneath  the  surface  with  the  deposits  of 
silt  and  in  the  uncovenanted  ways  of  the  great  water 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          53 

course,  till  now  the  tow-head  was  possibly  a  penin 
sula  in  lieu  of  the  island  it  had  once  been,  and  the 
packets  of  the  line  would  never  again  find  free  pas 
sage  as  of  yore  between  its  stretches  and  the  bank. 
Accustomed  eyes  could  see  how  far  extended  the 
stabilities  of  the  tow-head  and  thus  differentiate  the 
definite  land  formation  from  the  element  of  land 
transition,  that  was  neither  land  nor  water.  Here 
the  wind  made  great  sport,  shrilling  along  the  deso 
late  arid  spaces  of  the  pallid  sand  dunes  defenseless 
against  the  blast.  A  wild  night,  and  cold. 

The  tread  of  his  guide  was  silent — one  might 
almost  say  secret.  He  came  to  a  shuddering  gal 
vanic  pause  as  he  suddenly  encountered  a  watchman, 
a  lantern  in  his  hand.  The  big,  burly  Irishman 
gazed  with  round,  unfriendly,  challenging  eyes  at 
the  foremost  of  the  two  advancing  figures,  then 
catching  sight  of  the  familiar  face  of  the  Colonel 
his  whole  aspect  changed;  he  beamed  with  jovial 
recognition. 

"Oh,  the  Gunnel,  is  ut?  Faix,  the  top  o'  the 
mornin'  to  yez,  sor,  if  it's  got  anny  top  to  't — 'tis 
after  twelve.  This  grisly  black  night  seems  about 
the  ground  floor  of  hell.  The  river's  risin'  a  bit, 
sor;  an1  if  this  wind  would  fall  we'd  sure  have  a 
rain,  an'  git  out  o'  this,  foreshortly." 

He  touched  his  hat  and  moved  on,  the  feeble  halo 
of  the  lantern  betokening  his  progress  among  the 
shadowy  piles  of  freight,  dimly  visible  in  the  dull 
light  of  the  fixed  lamps. 

Not  even  a  speculation  did  Colonel  Kenwynton 
allow  himself  when  suddenly  his  precursor  put  a 
foot  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boiler  deck  and  sprang 
over  into  the  darkness.  The  old  soldier  followed 


54          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

without  a  moment's  doubt.  The  unseen  water 
surged  about  his  feet,  cold  as  ice,  and  at  the  swiftly 
flowing,  unexpected  impact  he  caught  his  breath  with 
a  gasp.  But  the  guide  had  forgotten  the  lapse  of 
time — how  old  a  man,  how  feeble,  was  the  erst 
while  stalwart  commander.  He  pressed  on,  the 
water  splashing  about  his  feet,  now  rising  to  ankle 
depth,  now  even  deeper,  once  surging  about  his 
knees.  Even  Colonel  Kenwynton  at  last  had  a 
thought  of  protest.  This  was  always  a  good  sol 
dier,  Captain  Treherne,  but  a  bit  reckless  and  dis 
posed  to  unnecessary  risks.  There  was  no  word  of 
remonstrance,  however,  from  the  elder  man,  and 
he  was  fairly  blown  when  suddenly  Captain  Tre 
herne  paused  at  a  considerable  distance  in  a  level 
space  near  the  river's  margin  where  was  beached 
a  clumsy  little  craft  which  the  Colonel  recognized 
as  a  dug-out. 

Captain  Treherne  seemed  all  unconscious  of  the 
pallid  countenance,  the  failing  breath,  the  halting 
step  of  the  old  man.  For,  indeed,  Colonel  Ken 
wynton  was  fain  to  catch  at  his  companion's  arm 
for  support  as  he  listened,  panting. 

"Come,  Colonel,  you  will  come  with  me.  I  need 
your  advice.  You  can  wield  a  paddle,  and  together 
we  can  make  the  distance." 

Only  the  obviously  impossible  checked  the  old 
soldier. 

"Wield  a  paddle  against  this  current,  my  dear 
sir?  Make  the  distance!  You  forget  my  age — 
seventy-five,  sir;  seventy-five  years." 

"It  is  not  life  and  death,  Colonel.  We  have 
faced  that  together,  you  and  I,  and  laughed  at  both. 
Dishonest  possession  is  involved  now,  and  legalized 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          55 

robbery,  and  hidden  assets.  And  /  have  the  secret 
of  the  cache,  Colonel,  7,  alone.  It  must  be  revealed. 
I  need  your  help.  This  is  the  crucial  crisis  of  my 
life.  My  life — !"  He  broke  off  with  an  accent  of 
scorn — "of  lives  worth  infinitely  more  than  mine. 
And,  Colonel  Kenwynton,"  he  laid  a  sudden,  lean 
hand  on  the  old  man's  arm,  "the  helpless !  For  they 
know  nothing  of  their  rights.  It  must  be  revealed 
to  one  who  will  annul  this  wrong,  this  heinous  dis 
aster." 

He  had  drawn  very  close,  and  his  grasp  on  the 
Colonel's  arm,  that  had  once  been  so  firm-fleshed 
and  sinewy,  seemed  to  crush  the  collapsed  muscles 
into  the  very  bone.  The  old  man  winced  with  the 
pain,  but  stood  firm. 

"I'm  with  you,  heart  and  soul,  always.  Com 
mand  me.  But,  my  dear  boy,  this  is  impracticable. 
Let's  get  a  roustabout  to  row." 

The  intensifying  grip  might  really  have  broken 
the  old  man's  bone. 

"Not  for  your  life — never  a  whisper  to  any  other 
living  creature!  Only  you  can  do  this.  I — I — I 
should  not  be  believed." 

"Not  believed!  You!"  cried  Colonel  Kenwyn 
ton  in  a  tone  of  such  indignant,  vicarious,  insulted 
pride,  that  what  self-control  the  other  man  possessed 
broke  down;  he  flung  his  arms  about  the  old  man's 
quivering  frame,  bowed  his  head  on  the  Colonel's 
shoulder  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"Not  even  you  would  believe  me — if  you  knew — 
if  you  knew  what  I  have  been — what  I  am." 

"Exactly  what  I  do  know,"  said  the  Colonel, 
sturdily.  "You  are  overcome  by  your  emotions, 
dear  old  fellow.  You  are  overwrought.  We  will 


56          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

put  an  end  to  this,  sir.  Come,  halloo  the  boat.  I 
can't  halloo,  Cap — think  of  that  for  me ! — damn 
this  cough !  Halloo  the  boat,  and  tell  the  mate 
to  send  us  a  roustabout  to  paddle.  Or,  hadn't  we 
better  take  the  yawl?  That  dug-out  looks  tricky — 
and,  by  God,  man,  it's  leaky."  He  had  advanced  to 
the  brink  where  the  craft  lay. 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  other,  "not  a  breath,  not  a 
whisper.  It  would  frustrate  all."  Then  impres 
sively,  "Colonel  Kenwynton,  strange  things  have 
come  about  in  this  country  because  of  the  war.  The 
rich  are  the  poor;  the  right  are  the  wrong;  the  in 
competent  sit  bridling  in  the  places  that  the  capable 
have  builded;  an  old  paper,  an  old  treasure,  lost 
time  out  of  mind,  would  reverse  some  lives,  by  God! 
And  /  hold  the  secret,  like  an  omnipotent  fate. 
There  must  be  no  miscarriage  of  justice  here, 
Colonel  Kenwynton." 

The  old  man's  eyes  stared  through  the  dusk  like 
an  owl's. 

"You  didn't  call  me  out  here  at  this  time  of  night 
to  talk  of  titles  to  property  and  acts  of  justice,  Hugh 
Treherne,  in  this  marsh — why,  there  ain't  a  bull 
frog  left  here." 

He  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  out  from  the  flap 
ping  broad  brim  of  his  hat  at  the  windy  waste  of 
waters,  the  indefinite  lines  of  the  shore,  the  distant 
summits  of  the  forest  trees  tossing  to  and  fro  against 
the  tumultuous  unrest  of  the  clouded  horizon. 

Close  at  hand  rose  sheer  precipitous  elevations 
of  the  tow-head;  seeming  far  away  towered  the 
great  bulk  of  the  grounded  steamer,  whitely  glim 
mering  through  the  night,  her  lamps  a  dim  yellow 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          57 

focus  here   and  there,   her  fires   extinguished,   her 
engines  sleeping  and  supine. 

"I  called  you  out  here,  Colonel,  because  you  are 
the  only  man  left  in  the  world  who  respects  his 
promise,  who  reverences  his  Maker,  who  trusts  his 
friend  and  would  go  through  fire  and  water  on  his 


summons." 


"I'll  take  an  affidavit  to  the  water,  dammy,"  said 
the  Colonel,  grimly,  stamping  about  as  the  trickling 
icy  streams  ran  sleekly  down  his  garments,  over  his 
instep.  "But  come  to  the  steamboat,  Hugh.  We'll 
have  a  glass  of  hot  brandy  and  water,  and  talk  this 
thing  over  in  comfort." 

Captain  Treherne  seemed  to  struggle  for  a  modi 
cum  of  self-control.  His  voice  had  a  remonstrant 
cadence  such  as  one  might  use  in  addressing  a  frac 
tious  child. 

"Colonel,  you  knew  once  what  a  council  of  war 
might  mean." 

"Heigh?    I  did  so— I  did  so." 

"This  is  secret — to  be  kept  in  the  bottom  of  your 
heart.  Your  own  thoughts  must  not  revolve  about 
it,  lest  they  grow  too  familiar  and  canvass  details 
with  which  you  have  no  concern." 

"Hugh,  I  am  an  old  man.  I  don't  believe  it,  as 
a  general  thing.  The  rheumatism  has  to  give  me 
a  sharp  pinch  to  remind  me  of  the  fact.  I  couldn't 
paddle  a  boat  to  save  my  life — and  against  that 


current." 


It  showed  in  the  chiaro-oscuro  like  the  solution 
of  the  problem  of  perpetual  motion  as  the  murky 
waters  sped  past. 

"Tell  me  here  and  now.  Where  in  all  the  world 
could  we  be  more  private?" 


58          THE    STORY    OP    DUCIEHURST 

Captain  Treherne  lifted  his  head  and  looked 
about  him, — only  the  bare  sand  of  the  bar,  dimly 
visible  in  the  vague  light  of  the  clouded  moon,  and 
of  a  differing  tint  from  the  dull  neutral  hue  of  the 
atmosphere  of  darkness.  The  steamer  was  abso 
lutely  silent,  save  as  a  loose  chain  might  clank, 
swinging  in  the  wind,  for  at  this  distance  one  could 
not  discern  the  shaking  of  the  transoms  in  their 
casings.  There  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  living 
creature,  until  a  great  bird,  driven  forth  from  its 
roost  by  the  falling  of  a  bough,  or  evicted  by  the 
wind,  went  screaming  overhead.  A  shrill  blast  pur 
sued  his  flight  and  presumably  from  the  dark  dis 
tance  down  the  river  one  could  not  have  distin 
guished  the  sounds  of  the  living  cry  from  the  skirl 
ing  of  the  restless  spirit  of  the  air. 

"We  crossed  the  river  in  a  dug-out,  under  the 
nose  of  a  gunboat,"  Captain  Treherne  began,  sud 
denly. 

"Who?  When?  Where?"  interrupted  the  old 
man,  his  face  vaguely  mowing  under  his  big  hat  as 
he  sought  to  compose  his  features. 

"How  can  I  tell  where?  In  forty  years  who 
knows  any  locality  in  the  course  of  this  deceitful 
old  river?  All  over  here,"  he  pointed  to  the  ex 
panse  of  waters,  "used  to  be  dense  cypress  woods. 
You  couldn't  find  the  sign  of  a  tree  now,  unless 
some  snag  gets  washed  up  by  the  current." 

"For  the  government  snag-boats  to  pull  up,"  com 
mented  Colonel  Kenwynton. 

"Victor  Ducie  had  been  wounded,  it  was  thought 
mortally,  in  a  skirmish  on  the  Arkansas  side,  and 
his  brother,  Archie,  and  I, — we  were  together  in  the 
rangers  then, — slipped  through  the  lines  one  dark 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          59 

midnight  to  Duciehurst  with  the  news.  You  re 
member  the  Ducies?" 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  do.  There  is  a  gentleman  of 
that  name — " 

But  Treherne  was  going  on.  "Mrs.  Ducie  deter 
mined  to  go  to  her  son  Victor  at  once ;  she  had  only 
one  of  her  children  at  home  then,  a  twelve-year-old 
boy  named  Julian,  and  she  could  take  him  with  her. 
The  country  was  full  of  bands  of  wandering  maraud 
ers  and  bushwhackers,  and  in  leaving  the  house 
Archie  placed  a  few  of  his  father's  most  important 
papers,  with  a  lot  of  specie,  and  some  family  jewels, 
in  a  strong  box,  which  we  wrapped  in  an  old  knap 
sack  and  hid  away." 

He  had  pushed  his  hat  back  from  his  brow  and 
Colonel  Kenwynton  felt  a  pang  of  blended  pity  and 
surprise  to  note  that  the  head  was  nearly  bald.  The 
years  had  trafficked  with  Treherne  as  well  as  with 
himself,  hard  dealings,  it  seemed.  For  they  had 
taken  his  youth,  his  spirit,  his  pervasive  cheer;  there 
was  something  indefinable  suggested  that  savored  of 
deep  melancholy.  And  had  these  covetous  years 
given  him  full  value  in  return — learning,  in  the  les 
sons  of  life,  just  judgment,  self-control,  disciplined 
purpose,  earnest  effort,  and,  last  and  not  least,  resig 
nation  and  calm  and  restful  faith?  Colonel  Ken 
wynton  was  unwittingly  shaking  his  old  white  head 
at  the  thought  in  his  mind.  Time  had  not  dealt 
honestly  by  Hugh  Treherne.  Time  had  exacted 
usury  and  had  paid  no  fair  equivalent  for  the  inef 
fable  possession  of  youth.  Colonel  Kenwynton  re 
alized,  however,  that  his  own  foible  was  hasty  judg 
ment,  and  he  sought  to  hold  his  conclusions  in  sus 
pension  while  he  listened. 


60         THE    STORY    OP    DUCIEHtlRST 

"We  will  come  to  the  end  of  the  story  sooner  if 
I  give  him  his  head,"  he  said  to  himself  and  ruefully 
added  as  he  shivered  in  his  drenched  garb,  "that 
is,  if  it  has  any  end." 

"Archie  understood  the  value  of  these  papers  of 
his  father's,"  Treherne  resumed  suddenly.  "There 
was  a  mortgage  on  Duciehurst  that  had  been  lifted, 
but  as  all  courts  of  record  were  closed  by  the  opera 
tions  of  war  the  satisfaction  had  not  been  noted  on 
the  registered  instrument.  Carroll  Carriton,  who 
held  the  mortgage,  happened  to  be  in  Mississippi 
at  the  time  and  he  executed  a  formal  release,  and 
quit  claim,  signed  and  witnessed,  but,  of  course,  not 
registered.  You  know  the  chaotic  state  of  courts 
of  law  at  that  time.  The  release  also  expressed  a 
formal  relinquishment  of  the  promissory  notes,  se 
cured  on  the  land,  for  they  were  not  returned;  in 
fact,  all  the  original  papers  were  still  out,  having 
been  placed  for  safekeeping  in  a  bank  in  Nashville, 
Tennessee,  where  Carriton  then  resided,  and  which 
was  within  the  Federal  lines.  The  whole  matter  of 
the  lifting  of  the  mortgage  and  the  full  satisfaction 
of  the  debt  was  thoroughly  understood  between  the 
principals  and  the  witnesses,  although  it  was  a  hasty 
transaction  and  in  a  way  irregular,  owing  to  the 
lack  of  facilities  for  recording  the  instruments  in 
the  state  of  war." 

"But,  look  here,"  cried  the  Colonel  in  great  ex 
citement,  "Duciehurst — you  know,  I  was  a  friend 
of  George  Ducie — Duciehurst  was  sold  to  satisfy 
that  mortgage,  in  behalf  of  the  heirs  of  Carroll 
Carriton." 

"Ah,  Lord.  That's  why  I  am  here,  Colonel," 
cried  Treherne  with  a  strange  note  of  pathos. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          61 

"But,  man  alive,  you  ought  to  have  been  here 
forty  years  ago  with  Carriton's  release." 

"Ah-h,  Lord,  Colonel,  you  don't  understand." 

"But  I  do  understand,  I  understand  mighty  well," 
cried  the  Colonel.  "Archie,  God  bless  his  soul,  I 
remember  him  like  yesterday,  died  of  typhoid  fever 
in  Vicksburg,  where  his  father  was  killed  by  the 
explosion  of  a  cannon  during  the  siege.  His  mother 
died  in  Arkansas,  succumbed  to  pneumonia,  con 
tracted  on  the  river  that  cold  night  when  she  crossed 
it  to  join  her  wounded  son,  and  never  returned  to 
Duciehurst.  Victor  did  not  die  till  long  afterward, 
he  recovered  from  his  wound  and  fell  at  last  in  the 
battle  before  Nashville.  Not  one  of  the  family 
was  left  when  the  war  closed  except  the  youngest 
son,  Julian,  and  although  the  suit  on  the  promissory 
notes,  brought  by  the  executors  of  Carriton,  was 
defended  in  his  behalf,  he  being  a  minor  at  the  time, 
no  proof  of  the  satisfaction  of  the  debt  could  be 
made,  and  in  default  of  payment  the  mortgage  was 
foreclosed,  and  the  magnificent  estate  of  Duciehurst 
went  under  the  hammer  for  a  mere  fraction  of  its 
value  in  the  collapsed  conditions  of  those  disorgan 
ized  times." 

"Ah-h-hh,  Lord,  Colonel,"  Treherne  was  sway 
ing  back  and  forth  as  in  a  species  of  anguish. 

"No  time  to  say  'Ah,  Lord,  Colonel,"  the  old 
man  muttered  the  words  in  irascible  mimicry. 
"Where  did  you  and  Archie  hide  that  knapsack?" 
and,  with  increasing  sternness,  "why  have  you  never 
produced  those  valuables?" 

Was  there  a  fluctuating  glimmer  of  moonlight  in 
the  rack  of  clouds,  or  did  the  pallid  day  look  forth 
for  one  moment,  averse  and  reluctant — he  saw  dis- 


62         THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

tinctly  that  face  which  he  once  knew  so  well,  with 
something  new,  strangely  unrecognizable  upon  it. 
Then  he  had  a  sudden  vision  of  a  scene  wreathed 
in  the  smoke  of  cannon  and  the  mists  of  rain;  the 
glitter  of  dull  gray  light  on  the  polished,  serried, 
fixed  bayonets  of  an  infantry  square;  the  sense  of 
the  motion  of  a  mad  tumultuous  gallop  of  a  charge; 
the  sound  of  trumpets  wildly  blowing,  pande 
monium,  yells,  shrieks  of  pain,  hoofbeats,  a  gush  of 
blood  suffusing  eyes,  and  all  consciousness  lost  save 
that  this  man  was  helping  him  to  his  own  horse 
from  under  the  carcass  of  the  slain  charger,  humbly 
holding  by  the  stirrup  in  their  mad  precarious  escape 
through  the  broken  square. 

The  years  since  that  momentous  day  had  been 
something  to  Colonel  Kenwynton,  and  but  for  this 
man's  courage  and  devotion  he  would  not  have  lived 
them. 

"Hugh,  dear  old  boy,  remember  one  fact. 
Through  everything  misty,  I  trust  you;  I  trust  you 
implicitly,  Hugh.  I  know  your  honorable  motives. 
Tell  me  anything  you  will,  but  through  thick  and 
thin  I  trust  you." 

"The  Ducie  valuables  are  what  I  am  coming  to," 
said  Treherne  uneasily,  his  voice  husky,  his  articu 
lation  muffled,  his  tongue  thick.  "We  hid  'em — 
Archie  and  I.  We  hid  'em  at  Duciehurst  in  the 
mansion.  That  is  what  I  want  to  tell  you." 

He  paused  to  gaze  about,  pointing  wildly,  now 
up,  now  down  the  river. 

"Then  we  crossed  there,  no,  there,  and  landed  on 
the  Arkansas  side.  We  had  put  Mrs.  Ducie  and 
Julian  into  the  skiff,  which  we  rowed  ourselves.  She 
had  a  lot  of  things  with  her  that  she  was  taking  to 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          63 

Victor,  bed-linen,  blankets,  clothes,  medicines,  wines 
and  such  like,  so  hard  to  come  by  in  the  Confederacy 
in  those  times.  We  landed  there,  no,  there." 

Again  he  was  pointing  wildly  from  place  to  place. 
Now  and  then  he  took  short,  agile  runs  to  and  fro, 
as  if  he  sought  a  better  view  in  the  windy  obscurity. 

"It  was  very  cold  and  a  pitch  black  night.  We 
almost  got  under  the  hull  of  a  Yankee  gunboat — 
she  was  a  vessel  that  had  been  captured  from  the 
Confederates,  armored  with  iron  rails,  you  know — 
that  kind  of  iron-clad.  As  she  swung  at  anchor  I 
wonder  the  suction  didn't  swamp  us,  but  it  didn't 
The  look-out  on  deck  never  challenged  nor  heard  us. 
We  hit  it  like  the  bull's  eye,  at  the  Arkansas  land 
ing, — Archie  knew  every  twist  and  quirk  in  the  cur 
rent  like  an  old  song,  born  at  Duciehurst,  you  know. 
And  after  we  made  it  to  the  farm-house,  where 
Victor  was  lying  at  the  point  of  death  it  seemed, 
we  returned  to  our  command  according  to  orders, 
our  leave  being  expired,  for  we  had  already  hid  the 
box  in  the  knapsack  at  Duciehurst.  And  that's  all.1* 

He  laid  his  hand  on  Colonel  Kenwynton's  shoul 
der  and  gazed  wistfully  into  his  face.  Day  was 
coming  surely,  for  the  elder  man's  feebler  vision 
read  a  strange  fact  in  those  eyes,  a  fact  that  made 
him  shudder,  even  when  half  perceived,  a  fact 
against  which  his  credulity  revolted. 

"Hugh,  Hugh,  why  in  the  name  of  God  have  you 
not  produced  those  papers,  restored  the  gold  and 
jewels?" 

"Why,  why,  why,"  Treherne's  voice  rose  to  a 
shriek.  "Why,  I  have  forgotten  where  they  were 
hidden.  Forgotten!  Forgotten!  Forgotten!" 

Colonel  Kenwynton  was  trembling  like  a  leaf.    A 


64          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

chill  keener  than  the  cold  had  set  his  heart  a-quiver. 
"Forgotten,"  he  echoed  in  a  vague  fright.  "For 
gotten — impossible !" 

The  contradiction  seemed  to  restore  Treherne — 
not  so  much  that  it  aroused  the  instinct  of  conten 
tion  as  the  determination  to  set  himself  right  in  the 
eyes  of  his  old  commander. 

"Do  you  know,  Colonel,  where  I  have  been  these 
forty  years?"  he  demanded,  quietly. 

"I  thought,  in  Paradise,  dear  old  boy.  I  often 
asked,  but  could  never  hear  a  word." 

Wherever  he  had  been  it  was  evident  he  had  not 
been  happy  there.  The  trembling  clasp  of  Colonel 
Kenwynton's  arm  on  his  shoulder  brought  the 
younger  man's  face  down  on  the  soft  old  wrinkled 
neck.  But  now  there  were  no  tears. 

"I  have  been  at  Glenrose." 

The  words  came  from  between  set  teeth,  in  the 
merest  thread  of  a  voice. 

"Glenrose?"  Colonel  Kenwynton  was  aware  that 
there  was  a  significance  in  the  reply  which  he  had 
not  grasped.  "A  beautiful  little  town,  I  am  told, 
not  far  from  Caxton,  and  growing  quite  into  com 
mercial  importance,"  he  said,  glibly,  his  instinct  of 
courtesy  and  compliment  galvanically  astir. 

"Oh,  horrible!  Horrible!"  Huge  Treherne  cried, 
poignantly.  "Do  you  wonder  now  that  I  have  for 
gotten?  /  can  only  wonder  that  I  remember  any 
thing.  They  pretend  that  it  was  the  wound,  at  Frank 
lin — the  injury  to  the  medulla  substance." 

"Hugh!  Hugh!"  the  old  Colonel  was  near  to 
falling  into  the  marshy  slough  at  his  feet.  "You 
don't  mean — you  can't  mean — the — asylum — the 
private  sanatorium  for  the  insane.  Oh,  my  poor 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST         65 

boy,  my  poor  boy.  Wait,  wait,  give  me  your  hand, 
I  shall  fall,  wait,  wait." 

But  there  were  sudden  voices  on  the  wind,  call 
ing  here,  calling  there.  Colonel  Kenwynton  heard 
his  own  name,  but  he  did  not  respond.  He  only 
sought  to  detain  his  old  -comrade  in  his  endearing 
clasp.  The  younger  man  was  the  stronger.  Tre- 
herne  wrested  himself  away,  though  not  without 
repeated  efforts,  seized  the  paddle,  pushed  off  the 
dug-out,  and  in  a  moment  was  lost  in  the  gloom, 
for  the  moon  was  down,  mists  were  rising  from  the 
low-lying  borders  of  a  bayou  delta,  and  the  frail 
craft  was  invisible  on  the  face  of  the  waters. 

Colonel  Kenwynton  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain 
kind  of  policy.  He  rallied  his  composure,  realizing 
that  the  Captain  of  the  steamboat  had  been  alarmed 
by  his  absence  on  this  precarious  spot  which  the 
sound  of  his  voice  had  betrayed,  and  before  the 
emissaries  sent  out  to  seek  him  had  reached  the  old 
man  he  had  determined  on  his  line  of  conduct.  He 
maintained  a  studied  reticence,  the  more  easily  since 
Treherne's  presence  had  not  been  observed  to  excite 
curiosity  and  he  himself  was  in  a  state  of  exhaus 
tion  and  cold  that  precluded  more  than  a  shivering 
gasp  in  reply  to  questions.  For  he  was  determined 
to  take  counsel  within  himself  before  he  indulged 
in  explanations.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  could 
better  afford  misconstruction  of  his  conduct  as  some 
fantastic  freak  of  drunkenness  than  run  the  risk 
of  divulging  the  interests  of  another  man  to  his 
possible  detriment, — this  man,  who  had  so  obvi 
ously,  so  appealingly  suffered.  He  steeled  himself 
in  this,  although  he  loved  the  approval,  or  rather 
the  admiration,  of  his  fellows,  and  he  felt  that 


66          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

his  position  in  some  sort  forfeited  it,  not  being 
aware  how  thoroughly  established  he  was  as  a  pub 
lic  favorite,  so  that,  indeed,  he  could  hardly  incur 
reprobation. 

"Ain't  the  old  Colonel  game — must  have  been 
tight  as  a  drum  last  night,"  the  Captain  said  to  the 
clerk.  "He  was  making  the  tow-head  fairly  sing 
when  I  heard  him,  luckily  enough." 

Then  to  the  Boots,  who  was  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  miry  shoes  into  which  he  had 
thrust  each  hand:  "Take  his  clothes  and  get  them 
dried  and  pressed  and  see  that  you  are  careful 
about  it.  Colonel  Kenwynton  shall  have  the  best 
service  aboard  as  long  as  I  have  a  plank  afloat." 

He  had  no  plank  afloat  now,  high  and  dry  as  the 
Cherokee  Rose  was  on  the  sand-bar,  but  his  mean 
ing  was  clear,  and  Colonel  Kenwynton's  gear, 
despite  its  strenuous  experience,  seemed  improved 
by  this  careful  handling  when  once  more  donned, 
and  he  strode  out,  serene  and  smiling,  into  the  outer 
air. 

"How  the  old  fellows  stand  their  liquor — a  body 
would  think  he  was  never  overtaken  in  his  life." 

The  Captain  possessed  the  grace  of  reticence. 
None  of  the  passengers  had  any  inkling  of  the  in 
cident  of  the  previous  night,  either  as  Colonel  Ken 
wynton  knew  it,  or  in  the  interpretation  which  the 
Captain  had  placed  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IF  the  patience,  the  concentration,  the  tireless 
endurance  with  which  Jasper  Binnhart  awaited  the 
return  of  the  stranger,  could  have  been  applied  to 
any  object  of  worthy  endeavor  commensurate  re 
sults  must  have  ensued.  It  was  necessarily,  even 
in  his  own  estimation,  a  fantastic  expectation  to 
learn  from  him  aught  of  value  concerning  the  treas 
ure  hidden  at  Duciehurst  during  the  Civil  War.  If 
the  stranger  really  had  knowledge  of  the  place  of 
its  concealment  it  was  not  likely  that  he  would  di 
vulge  it,  since  this  would  require  the  division  of  the 
windfall.  But,  he  argued  speciously,  the  man  might 
need  assistance,  which  probably  explained  his  singu 
lar  mission  to  the  stranded  Cherokee  Rose  to  confer 
with  Colonel  Kenwynton.  This  confirmed  the  im 
pression  of  the  Berridge  family  that  there  was  some 
thing  eccentric,  inexplicable  about  him.  What  he 
needed  in  such  an  enterprise  was  not  a  man  of  sev 
enty-five,  as  soft  as  an  old  horse  turned  out  to  grass, 
but  a  master  mechanic,  such  as  himself,  indeed,  a 
man  accustomed  to  the  use  of  tools,  with  the  dex 
terity  imparted  by  constant  work  and  the  strength 
of  muscles  trained  to  endurance.  The  Colonel! 
Why  he  would  be  as  inefficient  as  a  baby.  But  per 
haps  only  his  advice  was  desired.  Binnhart  wished 
again  and  again  that  it  had  chanced  that  he  could 
have  seen  the  stranger  first.  More  than  once  he 
despondently  shook  his  round  bullet  head,  with  its 

67 


68          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

closely  cropped  black  hair, — as  sleek  as  a  beaver's, 
from  his  habit  of  sousing  it  into  the  barrel  of  water 
where  he  tempered  his  steel, — as  he  sat  on  one  of  the 
steps  of  the  rude  flight  that  led  to  the  door  of  the 
semi-aquatic  dwelling  of  the  water-rat's  family,  and 
gazed  across  the  darkling  river  at  the  orange-tinted 
lights  of  the  Cherokee  Rose,  lying  high  and  dry  on 
the  bar.  It  was  a  pity  for  Colonel  Kenwynton  to 
be  let  into  the  secret  at  all.  If  the  stranger  had 
any  right  to  possess  himself  of  the  hidden  money 
he  could  boldly  hire  laborers  and  go  to  the  spot 
in  the  open  light  of  day.  If  his  right  were  com 
plicated  or  dubious,  and  this  was  most  likely,  or 
why  had  it  lain  so  long  unasserted,  the  old  Colonel 
would  clamp  down  on  it  with  both  feet.  The  Colonel 
had  highflown  antiquated  ideas,  unsuited  to  the 
world  of  to-day;  Binnhart  had  heard  him  speak  in 
public.  He  talked  about  honor,  and  patriotism,  and 
fair-dealing  in  politics,  and  such  chestnuts,  and,  al 
though  the  people  applauded,  they  were  secretly 
laughing  at  him  in  their  sleeves.  No,  no !  Binnhart 
shook  his  head  once  more.  It  was  a  thousand  pities 
to  bring  old  Kenwynton  into  it  at  all;  nothing  he 
knew  was  of  any  value  nowadays, — except  the  Col 
onel  did  know  how  a  horse  should  be  shod,  and 
the  proper  care  of  the  animal's  feet;  people  said  he 
used  to  own  fine  racers  in  his  rich  days.  If  Colonel 
Kenwynton  returned  with  the  stranger  there  might 
be  trouble.  The  old  man  was  a  hard  proposition. 
He  seemed  to  think  himself  a  Goliath,  and  would 
certainly  put  up  a  stiff  fight  on  an  emergency.  "I'd 
rather  see  him  come  back  with  any  three  men  than 
the  old  Colonel,"  Binnhart  concluded  ruefully. 
This  was  the  hour  of  the  night  when  a  mist  began 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST          69 

to  rise,  and  the  orange-tinted  lights  from  the  steam 
er's  cabin  glimmered  faintly  through  the  haze. 
Binnhart  became  apprehensive  that  he  might  not 
discern  the  tiny  craft  in  the  midst  of  the  great  river, 
struggling  across  its  intricate  braided  currents,  and 
thus  the  stranger  return  unaware,  or  perhaps  give 
him  the  slip  altogether.  He  rose  and  took  his  way 
down  the  successive  terraces  to  the  verge  of  the 
water.  He  must  needs  have  heed  not  to  walk  into 
the  river,  for  silent  as  the  grave  it  flowed  through 
the  deep  gorge  of  its  channel,  and  but  for  some  un 
discriminated  sense  of  motion  in  the  dark  landscape 
one  might  never  know  it  was  there. 

Long,  long  he  stood  at  gaze,  watching  in  the 
direction  of  the  bar,  his  ear  keenly  attentive,  aware 
that  he  could  hear  from  far  the  slightest  impact  of 
a  paddle  on  that  silent  surface.  But  the  wind  was 
rising  now;  the  mists,  affrighted,  spread  their  tenu 
ous  white  wings  and  flitted  away.  Presently  there 
lay  visible  before  him,  vaguely  illumined  by  the  light 
of  a  clouded  moon,  the  vast  spread  of  the  tossing 
turmoils  of  the  sky,  the  dark  borders  of  the  oppo 
site  bank,  the  swift  swirling  of  the  great  river,  and 
the  white  structure  of  the  steamboat,  rising  dimly 
into  the  air  on  the  sand-bar.  Her  lights  were  faint 
now,  lowered  for  the  night;  the  vague  clanking  of 
the  dynamo  came  athwart  the  currents;  still  the  sur 
face  of  the  waters  showed  no  gliding  craft,  and  listen 
as  he  might  he  heard  no  measured  dip  of  paddle. 

Once  more  he  betook  himself  back  to  the  shack 
and  found  Connover  and  Jorrocks  seated  on  the 
outer  stair.  They  evidently  had  no  faith  in  the 
adage  of  honor  among  thieves,  and  albeit  they  had 
alternately  enjoyed  the  refreshment  of  a  nap  in  the 


70          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

bunks  of  the  cabin  one  remained  always  vigilant  as 
to  the  movements  of  Binnhart.  As  the  night  wore 
on  and  naught  was  developed  both  had  taken  up  a 
position  on  the  outer  stair  and  alertly  awaited  the 
crisis. 

Dan  Berridge  and  his  father  were  but  poor  ex 
emplifications  of  the  sybarite,  but  the  paramount 
instincts  of  self-indulgence  overpowered  their  hope 
of  loot,  and  their  doubt  of  the  fair-dealing  of  their 
co-conspirators,  and  in  their  respective  bunks  they 
snored  as  noisily  as  if  in  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

Jessy  Jane  alone  took  note  of  the  fact  that,  but 
for  their  disclosure  of  the  somnolent  talk  of  the 
stranger,  the  others  would  have  known  naught  of  the 
possibility  of  the  discovery  of  the  hidden  valuables 
at  Duciehurst  and  she  resented  the  chance  that  they 
would  profit  to  the  exclusion  of  her  and  hers.  She 
remained  in  the  dark  in  the  back  room  of  the  little 
cabin,  but  up  and  dressed,  now  and  again  listening 
intently  for  any  stir  of  movement  or  sound  of  voices. 
When  she  heard  the  heavy  tread  of  Jorrocks  and 
Connover  tramping  to  the  outer  stair  as  they  re 
lieved  each  other's  watch,  she  would  set  the  com 
municating  door  ajar  to  thrust  in  her  tousled  red 
head  to  spy  upon  their  motions,  withdrawing  it 
swiftly.  Now  she  perceived  through  the  dim  vista  of 
the  room  the  square  face  of  Jorrocks  against  the 
gloom  of  the  night,  looking  at  her  with  calculating, 
narrowing  eyes,  evidently  appreciating  the  full 
significance  of  her  espionage,  and,  beyond  still,  a 
vague  shadowy  outline  which  she  recognized  as  Jas 
per  Binnhart's  profile.  She  closed  the  door  with  a 
bang,  partly  in  pettishness  and  partly  through  em 
barrassment,  at  the  moment  that  Binnhart  grew 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          71 

stiff  and  rigid,  motionless  in  excitement.  He  had 
sighted  a  canoe  down  the  river,  which  was  shining 
in  a  rift  of  the  clouds,  a  mile,  nay,  two,  below  the 
landing  for  which  it  was  bound.  Thus  she  did  not 
see  his  wild,  silent  gesture  of  discovery,  his  hand 
thrown  high  into  the  air.  Its  muscles  became  in 
formed  with  a  mandatory  impulse  as  he  beckoned 
to  Jorrocks  and  Connover  to  follow  and  set  forth 
in  a  dead  run  for  the  water's  side. 

A  skiff  was  lying  there  scarcely  discernible  in  the 
vague  light.  It  belonged  to  the  shanty-boater,  and 
into  it  the  owner  threw  himself,  grasping  the  oars, 
the  other  two  with  less  practiced  feet  tumbled  into 
the  space  left  available,  and  the  craft  shot  out  from 
the  land  under  the  swift,  strong  strokes  of  the 
shanty-boater,  rowing  as  if  for  a  purse.  There  was 
a  belt  of  pallor  along  the  horizon.  A  sense  of 
dreary  wistfulness,  of  sadness,  lay  on  the  land,  com 
ing  reluctantly  into  view.  The  clouds  hung  low  and 
menacing,  although  the  wind  still  was  high.  The 
dawn  was  near,  or  even  the  practiced  eyes  of  the 
river  pirates  might  not  have  distinguished  the  dug 
out,  seeking  to  cross  the  great  expanse,  yet  being 
carried  by  the  strong  current  further  and  further 
down  the  river  from  its  objective  point. 

"See  her  now?"  asked  Jorrocks,  resolutely  row 
ing  and  never  turning  his  head. 

"Well  out  todes  mid-stream,"  replied  Binnhart. 
"Nigh  to  swampin',  too.  Git  a  move  on  ye,  Jor 
rocks,  git  a  move  on  ye.n 

After  a  contemplative  moment  he  suddenly  threw 
himself  on  another  pair  of  oars  and  the  combined 
strength  of  the  two  men  sent  the  light  boat  shoot 
ing  like  an  arrow  down  the  surface  of  the  river 


72          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

upon  the  craft,  evidently  having  shipped  water  and 
beginning  to  welter  dangerously,  showing  a  tendency 
to  capsize,  the  trick  so  frequently  practiced  by  the 
faithless  dug-out. 

"Hello,  sport!"  called  out  Binnhart,  as  soon  as 
he  was  within  earshot.  "You'll  go  to  the  bottom  in 
three  minutes  unless  you  can  swim  agin  the  Missis 
sippi  current  better  than  I  can.  Will  you  have  a 
lift?" 

The  stranger's  exhausted  face  showed  ghastly 
white  in  the  dull,  slow  light.  His  wide,  dark  eyes 
were  wild  and  suspicious.  There  was  something  in 
their  expression  that  sent  a  chill  coursing  down  the 
spine  of  the  impressionable  Connover,  his  shaken, 
exacerbated  nerves  all  on  edge  from  his  constant 
potations,  as  well  as  from  the  excitements  of  this 
experience  and  the  strain  of  his  long  vigil.  The 
stranger  scanned  them  successively,  keeping  the 
canoe  in  place  by  an  occasional  dip  of  the  paddle. 
It  might  seem  as  if  he  debated  the  alternative — 
Davy  Jones's  locker  or  a  place  among  these  boat 
men.  When  he  spoke  his  reserved  gentlemanly 
tone  struck  their  attention. 

"I  shall  be  much  obliged,"  he  said,  with  grave 
and  distant  courtesy,  evidently  recognizing  a  vast 
gulf  between  their  station  and  his. 

"Move  out  of  the  gentleman's  way,  Connover," 
said  Binnhart,  quickly.  For  this  was  a  gentleman, 
however  water-soaked,  however  queer  of  conduct, 
whatever  project  he  might  have  in  view. 

After  securing  the  dug-out  as  a  tow,  Binnhart 
seated  himself  opposite  the  stranger,  who  was  given 
the  place  of  honor  in  the  stern. 

"Nothin'  meaner  afloat  than  a  dug-out,"  Binn- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST         73 

hart  remarked,  keenly  watching  the  face  of  his  guest, 
whose  lineaments  became  momently  more  distinct 
as  the  dull  dawn  grew  into  a  dreary  day.  "Though 
to  be  sure  a  dug-out  ain't  used  commonly  for  cross 
ing  the  river,  jes'  for  scoutin'  about  the  banks,  and 
in  the  bayous,  and  lakes." 

"I  am  not  accustomed  to'  its  use,"  the  stranger 
replied. 

"You  come  mighty  nigh  swampin',  an1  that's  a 
fact,  though  you  couldn't  have  got  nothin'  better 
at  Berridge's,  an'  I  s'pose  your  business  with  Colonel 
Kenwynton  on  the  Cherokee  Rose  wouldn't  wait." 

"Colonel  Kenwynton!"  cried  the  gentleman,  with 
a  strange  sharpness.  "How  do  you  know  I  had 
business  with  Colonel  Kenwynton?" 

"No  offense,  sir.  You  spoke  of  it  at  Berridge's. 
He  is  a  leaky-mouthed  old  chap.  What  goes  in  at 
his  ears  comes  out  of  his  jaws." 

"I  spoke  of  it?  /  spoke  of  it?"  repeated  the 
stranger.  His  voice  was  keyed  to  the  cadences  of 
despair.  The  modulation  of  those  dying  falls  was 
scarcely  intelligible  to  Binnhart;  he  could  not  have 
interpreted  them  nor  even  the  impression  they  made 
upon  his  mind.  But  some  undiscriminated  faculty 
appraised  their  true  intendment  and  on  it  fashioned 
his  course.  Once  more  he  looked  keenly  at  the 
stranger's  face,  while  the  gentleman  gazed  with  deep 
reflectiveness  at  the  swift  waters  so  near  at  hand 
racing  by  on  either  side. 

"Where  shall  we  set  you  ashore,  sir?"  Binnhart 
asked  with  respectful  urbanity. 

Ah,  here  was  evidently  a  dilemma.  Berridge's 
hut  was  now  far  up  stream,  since  the  brawny  prac 
ticed  arms  of  Jorrocks  had  steadily  continued  to 


74          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

row  the  skiff  down  and  down  the  current,  which  of 
itself  would  have  been  ample  motive  power  for  a 
swift  transit.  An  expression  of  despondency  crossed 
the  stranger's  face. 

"I  should  have  noticed  earlier,"  he  said.  "I  had 
intended  to  return  to  Berridge's,  but  I  cannot  ask 
you  to  go  so  far  out  of  your  way  against  the  cur 
rent.  Just  set  me  ashore  at  the  nearest  practicable 
point  and  I  can  walk  back." 

"All  'ight,  sir.  Duciehurst  is  the  nearest  safe 
landing,  the  bank  is  bluff  an'  caving  above." 

Binnhart  was  quick  to  note  as  the  word  was 
spoken  the  change  of  expression  and  a  sudden  sharp 
gasp  that  was  not  unlike  a  snap,  so  did  the  muscles 
evade  control. 

"You  are  acquainted  with  the  old  mansion,  sir, 
spoke  of  it  bein'  part  of  your  business  with  Colonel 
Kenwynton  to  git  the  hidden  money  an*  papers  an' 
vallybles — take  care,  Colty,  he'll  fall  out  of  the 
boat!" 

For  Captain  Treherne,  his  eyes  distended,  his 
lower  jaw  fallen,  his  face  livid,  had  risen  in  the 
boat  and  stood  tottering  in  the  unsteady  craft,  star 
ing  aghast  and  dumfounded  at  Binnhart.  "I  spoke 
of  that?  /  told  you  that?" 

"No,  sir,  but  you  told  Berridge,  Josh,  the  old 


man." 


"You  lie,  you  infamous  liar!  What,  /  publish 
abroad  the  secret  that  I  have  kept  through  thick  and 
thin,  till  after  forty  years  of  acute  mania  I  may 
right  the  wrong  and  establish  the  title.  Oh,  my 
God!"  he  broke  forth  shrilly,  "am  I  raving  now? 
Is  this  a  species  of  hallucination,  obsession,"  he 
waved  his  wild  hands  toward  sky,  and  woods,  and 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          75 

sinister,  silent  river,  uor,  worse  still,  is  it  stern  fact 
and  have  I  betrayed  my  sacred  trust  at  last?" 

"He'll  turn  this  boat  upside  down,"  the  shanty- 
boater  in  a  low  voice  warned  the  others. 

"  'Liar'  is  a  toler'ble  stiff  word  for  me  to  have 
to  take  off  'n  you,  Mister,"  said  Binnhart,  with 
affected  gruffness,  for  his  affiliations  with  the  truth 
were  not  so  close  as  to  cause  him  to  actually  resent 
an  accusation  of  divagation.  "It  ain't  my  fault  if 
you  got  absent-minded  an'  told  Berridge  that  the 
vallybles  are  hid  in  a  pillar  or  a  pilaster,"  he  broke 
off  abruptly. 

A  shrill  scream  rent  the  air.  It  seemed  for  one 
moment  as  if  Captain  Treherne  himself  had  made 
a  discovery,  so  elated  were  his  eyes,  so  triumphant 
was  his  face,  changed  almost  out  of  recognition  in 
the  moment.  Agitated  as  he  was  he  had  lost  his 
balance  and  was  swaying  to  and  fro  as  if  he  might 
pitch  head-foremost  into  the  river. 

"If  you  don't  want  the  whole  water-side  popila- 
tion  rowing  out  here  to  see  what's  the  matter  aboard 
you  had  better  make  him  stop  that  n'ise,"  the  shanty- 
boater  urged.  "Gag  him.  Take  his  handhercher, 
or  his  hat,"  he  recommended,  still  swiftly  rowing. 

The  dull,  purplish  twilight  of  the  slow-coming 
day  gave  little  token  of  stir  amongst  the  few  scat 
tered  inhabitants  of  the  riverside  within  earshot; 
cottonpickers  are  never  in  the  field  till  the  sun  has 
dried  the  dew  from  the  plant,  but  Jorrocks  was 
mindful  of  the  fact  that  there  are  barnyard  duties 
in  an  agricultural  community  requiring  early  ris 
ing;  cows  are  to  be  milked,  horses  fed  and  watered, 
and  any  bucolic  errand  might  bring  to  the  bank  an 
inquisitive  interest  in  these  weird  cries  ringing  from 


76          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

shore  to  shore  in  an  intensity  of  agonized  emotion. 
The  suggestion  of  Jorrocks  was  acted  upon  instantly. 
Binnhart  roughly  knocked  the  hat  from  Captain 
Treherne's  head,  crushed  it  into  a  stiff,  shapeless 
mass,  thrust  it  between  his  jaws,  attempting  to  se 
cure  it  with  his  large  linen  handkerchief,  despite  his 
strenuous  resistance.  The  struggle  was  fierce,  and 
the  miscreants  were  dismayed  by  the  strength  the 
victim  put  forth.  The  two  could  scarcely  hold  him ; 
over  and  again  he  shook  off  both  Binnhart  and  Con- 
nover.  The  shanty-boater  had  great  ado  even  with 
his  practiced  skill  to  keep  the  skiff  from  overturning 
altogether,  as  it  listed  from  side  to  side  as  the 
weight  of  the  combatants  shifted.  The  stranger 
fought  with  a  sort  of  frenzy,  striking,  kicking,  but 
ting  with  his  head,  even  biting  with  his  strong  snap 
ping  jaws. 

"He  is  like  a  maniac,"  cried  Binnhart,  in  amaze, 
and  once  more  that  awful  cry  rang  upon  the  air, 
shrill,  wild,  freighted  with  demoniacal  bursts  of 
laughter,  yet  with  an  intonation  more  pathetic  than 
tears. 

Not  until  Jorrocks  shipped  his  oars  and,  leaning 
forward,  caught  Treherne's  feet,  throwing  him  on 
his  back  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  was  the  gag  again 
introduced  into  his  mouth,  to  be  promptly  and  dex 
terously  ejected  as  he  sought  to  rise.  Again  was  the 
semi-nautical  skill  of  the  shanty-boater  of  avail.  A 
crafty  knot  in  a  rope's  end  and  the  stranger's  arms 
were  pinioned  to  his  side,  and  while  the  gag  was 
secured  the  surplusage  of  the  cord  was  bound  again 
and  again  about  his  legs  till  he  was  helpless,  able 
neither  to  move  nor  to  speak.  Only  his  wild  eyes 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          77 

expressed  his  indomitable  courage,  his  sense  of  af 
fronted  dignity,  his  resentful  fury. 

"I  do  declar'  I'm  minded  to  spit  in  his  face,"  ex 
claimed  Binnhart,  vindictively,  as  panting  and 
breathless,  he  towered  above  his  victim,  lying  at  his 
feet. 

"Better  not!"  the  shanty-boater  admonished  the 
blacksmith.  Then,  in  a  lower  voice :  "You  fool 
you,  we  depend  on  his  good  will  to  show  us  the  place 
where  the  swag  is  hid." 

"  'Tend  to  your  own  biz,"  roughly  replied  Binn 
hart.  "Look  where  your  boat  is  driftin'.  Bound 
for  Vicksburg,  ain't  ye?" 

For,  left  to  its  own  devices  when  the  oarsman 
had  gone  to  the  aid  of  his  comrades,  the  skiff  had 
been  carried  by  the  swift  current  far  down  the 
stream  and  toward  the  bank,  so  close,  indeed,  that 
Binnhart  apprehended  its  grounding.  He  had  not 
an  acquaintance  with  the  river  front  equal  to  the 
practical  knowledge  of  the  shanty-boater,  whose 
peregrinations  made  him  the  familiar  of  every 
bogue  and  bight,  of  every  bar  and  tow-head  for  a 
hundred  miles  or  more. 

"Look  what's  ahead  of  your  blunt  pig-snout,  an* 
maybe  ye'll  have  sense  enough  to  follow  it,"  Jor- 
rocks  retorted. 

For  a  great  looming  structure  had  appeared  on 
the  bank  in  the  murky  atmosphere,  that  was  not  so 
shadowy  as  night,  yet  in  its  obscurity  could  hardly 
assume  to  be  day.  An  imposing  mansion  of  three 
stories,  with  a  massive  cornice  and  commodious 
wings,  stood  well  back  on  the  shelving  terraces. 
Woods  on  either  hand  pressed  close  about  and  many 
of  the  trees  being  magnolias  and  of  coniferous  vari- 


78          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

eties  foreign  to  the  region,  the  foliage  was  dense 
despite  the  season,  and  gave  the  entourage  a  singu 
lar,  sinister  sense  of  deep  seclusion.  In  the  dim 
light  one  could  hardly  discern  that  there  was  no 
glass  in  the  windows,  but  the  black,  gaping  inter 
vals  intimated  somehow  vacancy  and  ruin,  and  Binn- 
hart  was  quick  to  notice  the  dozen  great  pillars  ris 
ing  to  the  floor  of  the  third  story  and  supporting  the 
roof  of  the  long  broad  portico.  Then  he  gave  no 
further  attention  to  the  unwonted  surroundings,  but 
fixed  his  gaze  on  the  face  of  their  prisoner  as  his 
helpless  bulk  was  lifted  from  the  boat  by  the  three. 
He  was  of  no  great  weight  and  they  bore  him  easily 
enough,  inert  and  motionless,  along  the  broad 
broken  stone  pavement  to  the  deserted  ruin. 

A  ready  interpretation  had  Binnhart,  a  keen  in 
tuition.  The  native  endowment  might  have  wrought 
him  good  service  in  a  better  field.  As  it  was  it  had 
been  the  pivotal  faculty  on  which  had  turned  with 
every  wind  of  opportunity  the  nefarious  successes 
that  the  thieves  had  achieved.  He  now  watched  the 
glimmer  of  recognition  in  Captain  Treherne's  eyes 
as  he,  too,  gazed  breathlessly  with  intent  interest 
at  the  mansion,  despite  his  bound  and  gagged  situa 
tion.  He  even  made  shift  to  turn  his  head  that  he 
might  fix  his  eyes  on  the  eastern  side.  Only  to  the 
east  he  looked,  and  always.  Binnhart  felt  a  bound 
ing  pulse  of  prideful  discovery  that  in  the  east  the 
treasure  was  hidden,  in  an  eastern  pilaster  of  the 
portico. 

He  was  not  familiar  with  the  meaning  of  the 
architectural  term,  but  just  what  a  "pilaster"  was 
he  would  know  before  he  was  an  hour  older,  he 
swore  to  himself,  if  there  was  a  carpenter  or  builder 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          79 

awake  in  the  little  town  of  Caxton  where  his  shop 
was  located  and  where  he  must  needs  repair  for 
tools.  There  he  would  learn  this  all-significant  fact, 
for  that  there  was  treasure  hidden  at  Duciehurst 
all  the  country-side  had  been  aware  for  forty  years 
— the  question  was,  where? 

They  bore  Captain  Treherne  through  half  a 
dozen  darkling  rooms,  showing  as  yet  scant  illumi 
nation  from  the  slow  coming  day.  The  windows 
gave  upon  a  gray  nullity  outside,  and  even  the  size 
and  condition  of  the  bare,  echoing  apartments  could 
not  be  ascertained  by  the  prisoner's  searching  gaze 
as  he  was  laid  down  on  the  floor  at  full  length, 
watching  the  preparations  of  his  captors  for  their 
temporary  departure.  One  of  them  would  remain, 
as  he  was  assured  by  Binnhart,  who  had  again 
adopted  a  tone  of  deference  suited  to  the  evident 
station  and  culture  of  the  victim.  Connover  would 
stay  and  see  to  it  that  he  was  not  molested  in  any 
manner  whatever  during  the  short  absence  of  the 
others.  Binnhart,  making  his  words  as  few  as  pos 
sible,  took  his  leave  and  once  more  in  the  boat 
Jorrocks  pulled  down  the  river  with  every  pulse  of 
energy  he  could  command. 

Captain  Treherne  had  spent  forty  years  of  his 
life  in  an  insane  asylum,  but  the  experience  had  not 
bereft  him  in  this  lucid  interval  of  the  appreciation 
of  certain  fundamental  facts  of  human  nature.  He 
realized  that  although  he  could  not  use  his  hands, 
Connover  was  in  no  wise  restricted.  Perhaps  the 
offer  of  the  funds  in  his  pocket  might  compass  his 
release  if  he  could  find  means  to  intimate  this  deli 
cate  proposition.  Treherne  waited  till  he  heard  the 
shuffling  gait  of  Jorrocks  and  the  swift  assured  step 


80         THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

of  Binnhart  die  away  in  the  distance  before  he  would 
seek  to  communicate  his  desire  by  means  of  winks 
and  such  significant  grimaces  as  the  gag  would  per 
mit.  Before  the  others  were  clear  of  the  house 
Connover  had  come  and  stood  beside  him  gazing 
down  at  him  with  a  sort  of  vacant  curiosity  on  his 
weak,  dissipated  face,  unmeaning  and  without  inten 
tion.  But  he  immediately  turned  away,  and,  repair 
ing  to  a  long  hall  hard  by,  began  to  tramp  idly  back 
and  forth  to  while  away  the  time  of  waiting. 

It  was  likely  to  be  a  considerable  time,  he  began 
to  reflect  discontentedly,  and  he  had  no  particular 
liking  for  his  commission.  The  other  fellows  would 
get  their  feed  in  Caxton,  he  argued.  Jorrocks  would 
not  go  without  his  breakfast  for  the  United  States 
Treasury.  They  would  also  get  drinks,  good  and 
plenty.  At  this  thought  he  took  an  empty  flask 
from  his  pocket  and  lugubriously  smelled  it.  He 
was  a  fool,  he  said  to  himself,  and  perhaps  that  was 
the  only  true  word  he  had  spoken  that  day.  But,  in 
his  opinion,  it  applied  specifically  to  his  consent  to 
remain  here,  as  if  he,  too,  were  bound  and  gagged. 

Once  more  he  sniffed  the  departed  delights  of  the 
empty  flask.  Suddenly  Captain  Treherne  heard  no 
more  the  regular  impact  of  his  steps  as  he  tramped 
the  long  length  of  the  vacant  hall.  There  was  a 
livery  stable  at  a  way-station  of  the  railroad  some 
eight  miles  distant,  a  goodish  tramp  on  an  empty 
stomach,  but  the  odor  of  the  flask  endued  him  "with 
the  strength  of  ten."  He  was  known  there  as  an 
ex-jockey  of  some  success,  he  was  appreciated  after 
a  fashion  by  its  employees;  he  could  count  on  their 
hospitality  and  conviviality,  and  perhaps  borrowing 
a  rig  he  could  return  before  Binnhart  and  Jorrocks 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          81 

would  be  here  accoutered  with  their  tools.  The 
prisoner  could  not  report  his  defection,  even  when 
liberated,  for  he  could  not  know  where  in  that  great 
building  he  had  seen  fit  to  bestow  himself  to  enjoy, 
perchance,  what  he  was  pleased  to  call,  "a  nap  of 
sleep." 

Thus  silence  as  of  the  tomb  settled  on  the  deserted 
building.  The  shades  of  night  gradually  wore  away 
and  the  pale  gray  light  of  a  sunless  and  melancholy 
day  pervaded  the  dreary  vistas  of  the  bare  unin 
habited  ruin. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  his  inexorable  view  of  the  sanctity  of  his  prom 
ise  Colonel  Kenwynton  had  no  impulse  to  confide 
the  details  of  the  revelation  he  had  received  or  to 
take  counsel  thereon.  Still,  he  could  but  look  with 
an  accession  of  interest  at  Adrian  Ducie  when  he 
met  him  at  the  breakfast  table,  the  passengers  of 
the  Cherokee  Rose  dallying  over  the  meal,  prolong 
ing  it  to  the  utmost  in  the  dearth  of  other  interest 
or  occupation. 

Although  Ducie  seemed  to  have  mustered  the 
philosophy  to  ignore  the  serious  aspects  of  this 
most  irksome  and  dolorous  detention,  it  had  dark 
ened  all  the  horizon  to  Floyd-Rosney's  exacting  and 
censorious  mood.  "I  can't  imagine,  Captain,  how 
you  should  not  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  the 
formation  of  an  obstruction  capable  of  grounding 
the  boat,"  was  his  cheerful  matutinal  greeting. 

"Oh,  Miss  Dean  says  he  knew  it  was  there  all 
the  time,  and  only  wished  to  entertain  us,"  his  wife 
interposed,  with  a  view  of  toning  down  her  lord's 
displeasure,  but  her  sarcastic  chin  was  in  the  air, 
and  her  clipped,  quick  enunciation  gave  token 
only  of  one  of  her  ironic  pleasantries. 

"Well,  I  intend  to  eat  him  out  of  house  and  home 
while  I  am  about  it,"  said  Ducie,  with  an  affectation 
of  roughness.  "This  table  is  not  run  a  la  carte. 
You  can't  charge  more  than  the  passage-money, 

82 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          83 

Captain,  no  matter  how  long  we  abide  with  you  in 
this  pleasance  of  a  sand-bar — and  I  really  think, 
waiter,  I  can  get  away  with  the  other  wing  of  that 
fried  chicken.*' 

"You  think  you  can  get  away;  can  you?"  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney  fleered. 

The  queer  little  roughness  he  affected  was  incon 
gruous  with  the  delicate  elegance  of  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney's  presence.  The  polish  of  his  own  appear 
ance  and  ordinary  manner  warranted  it  as  little,  and 
the  contrariety  of  his  mental  attitude  was  like  that 
of  a  bad  child  "showing  off"  in  the  reverse  of  ex 
pectation  or  desire.  Between  the  heavy  sulking  of 
her  husband  in  the  troublous  contretemps  of  the 
detention  of  the  boat,  and  the  peculiar  tone  that 
Adrian  Ducie  had  taken,  in  which,  however,  offense 
was  at  once  untenable  and  inexplicable,  it  might 
seem  that  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  had  much  ado  to 
preserve  her  airy  placidity  and  maintain  the  poise 
of  the  delicate  irony  of  her  manner.  This  became 
more  practicable  when  Ducie's  attention  was  di 
verted  to  a  little  girl  of  twelve  who  had  boarded  the 
packet  with  her  father  at  the  landing  of  a  fashion 
able  suburban  school  some  distance  up  the  river, 
evidently  designing  to  spend  the  week-end  at  home. 
She  was  a  bouncing  little  girl,  with  liquid  black 
eyes,  and  dark  red  hair,  long  and  abundant,  plaited 
on  either  side  of  her  head  and  tied  up  with  black 
ribbon  bows  of  preposterously  wide  loops.  While 
she  was  as  noisy  and  as  active  as  a  boy,  she  was 
evidently  constantly  beset  with  the  realization  that 
her  lot  in  life  was  of  feminine  restrictions,  and  mis 
erably  repented  of  every  alert  caper.  Her  memory, 
however,  was  short,  as  short,  one  might  say,  as  her 


841         THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

very  abbreviated  skirts,  and  the  monition  of  the 
staid  gait,  appropriate  to  her  sex,  always  struck  her 
after  the  fantastic  gallopade  or  muscular  skip  on 
her  long,  handsome,  black-stockinged  legs,  and 
never  by  any  chance  earlier.  She  had  a  most  Briar- 
ean  and  centipedal  consciousness  in  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney's  presence,  which  she  instinctively  appraised 
as  critical,  and  she  was  covered  with  confusion  as 
she  came  flustering  out  of  her  stateroom  to  the 
breakfast  table  to  realize  that  she  had  banged  the 
door  behind  her.  By  way  of  disposing  of  one  super 
fluous  foot  at  least  she  crooked  her  leg  deftly  at  the 
knee,  placed  its  foot  in  the  chair  and  sat  down  upon 
it,  turning  scarlet  as  she  did  so,  realizing  all  too 
late  that  the  maneuver  was  perfectly  obvious,  and 
wondering  what  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  must  think  of 
a  girl  who  sat  on  her  foot.  For  the  opinion  of  the 
score  of  other  persons  at  the  tables  she  had  not  a 
thought  or  a  care,  doubtless  relying  on  their  good 
nature  to  condone  the  attitude,  curiously  affected  and 
prized  by  persons  of  her  age  and  sex.  An  agile 
twist  had  got  the  foot  down  to  the  floor  again,  and 
now  with  restored  composure  and  rebounding  spirits 
her  gushing  loquacity  was  reasserted,  and  she  was 
exchanging  matutinal  greetings  with  her  traveling 
companions;  her  father,  a  tall,  lean,  quiet  man,  who 
had  marked  her  entrance  with  raised  eyebrows  and 
a  concerned  air,  having  resumed  his  talk  on  the 
tariff  with  his  next  neighbor  at  table. 

"Have  compassion  on  our  dullness,  Miss  Mar- 
jorie,"  said  Adrian  Ducie,  suavely  smiling  at  her 
from  across  the  board.  In  his  contrariety  he  seemed 
to  have  divined  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  covert  disap 
proval  and  made  a  point  of  according  his  own  favor. 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST          85 

Marjorie's  heart,  however,  was  in  no  danger  from 
his  fascinations.  To  her  he  seemed  a  man  well 
advanced  in  years,  quite  an  old  bachelor,  indeed. 
"Tell  us  your  dreams." 

"Dreams?  oh,  mercy!"  How  often  had  she  been 
warned  against  rising  inflections  and  interjections? 
"My  dreams  are  all  mixed  up.  I  don't  know  now 
what  they  were." 

"I  will  disentangle  them  for  you,"  he  said,  bland 
ly;  then  in  parenthesis  to  the  waiter,  "Give  the  cook 
my  compliments  and  tell  him  to  send  up  another 
omelette,  which  I  will  share  with  Miss  Ashley." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  eggs,"  Marjorie  blurted  out, 
then  stopped  short.  How  often  had  she  been  ad 
monished  never  to  say  at  table  that  she  disliked  any 
article  of  diet.  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  she  was  sure, 
must  have  noticed  that  lapse. 

"Then  I  will  eat  it  all  by  myself — mark  me  now, 
Captain!  While  awaiting  its  construction  I  will 
tell  your  dreams,  and  interpret  their  mystery." 

"Oh,  oh,"  gurgled  Marjorie.  What  a  nice  old 
man  was  this  Mr.  Adrian  Ducie !  Her  blithe  young 
eyes  were  liquid  and  brilliant  with  expectation. 

"You  dreamed  that  you  and  I  went  hunting,  with 
some  others  who  don't  matter  and  who  shall  be 
nameless,"  he  glanced  slightingly  up  and  down  the 
row  of  passengers  at  the  table.  "We  went  ashore 
in  the  yawl,  and  I  borrowed  the  Captain's  rifle, 
and ," 

"No,  you  didn't,"  said  the  Captain,  from  the  next 
table,  "for  I  haven't  got  one." 

"You  don't  mean  it?"  said  Ducie,  stopping  short. 
"Then  what  would  become  of  us  if  pirates  should 


86          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

board  this  gallant  craft  of  ours?     Depend  wholly 
on  the  pistol  pockets  of  the  passengers?" 

"Oh,  oh,  Mr.  Ducie,"  cried  Marjorie,  quite  losing 
her  hold  on  herself,  "you  are  so  funny  1" 

"Thank  you,  oh,  very  much,  I  can  be  funnier  than 
that  when  I  try." 

Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  unseeing  eyes  perceived  no 
interest  apparently  in  this  conversation.  Now  and 
then,  with  an  absorbed  air,  she  recurred  to  her  tea 
and  toast  as  if  naught  were  going  forward,  while 
her  husband  ate  his  breakfast  as  silently  and  with 
as  much  gruff  concentration  as  a  hound  with  a  bone. 

Their  persistent  expression  of  a  lack  of  interest 
seemed  to  stimulate  Mr.  Ducie  to  a  further  absorp 
tion  of  the  attention  of  the  company.  "Are  there 
really  no  shot-guns,  no  fowling-pieces  aboard,  noth 
ing  to  shoot  with  deadlier  than  the  darts  of  Miss 
Marjorie's  bright  eyes?" 

"Oh,  oh,"  she  squealed,  enchanted  at  this  turn, 
and  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork  to  put  her  hands 
before  her  lips  apparently  to  suppress  a  series  of 
similar  shrillnesses,  for  this  old  man's  funniness 
was  of  a  most  captivating  order. 

"I  notice  that  there  is  a  swamper's  cabin  over 
there  on  the  bank;  I'll  bet  he  has  got  a  rifle;  but 
what  is  the  nearest  plantation  house,  Captain? 
Mansion,  I  should  say,"  he  corrected  the  phrase  with 
the  satiric  flout  of  the  younger  generation  at  the 
mannerisms  of  yore. 

The  Captain  seemed  to  resent  it.  "You  may  very 
safely  call  it  a  'mansion,'  sir,  it  has  twenty-five 
rooms,  exclusive  of  ball-room,  billiard-room,  pic 
ture-gallery,  and  the  domestic  offices,  kitchen,  laun 
dry,  dairy,  and  quarters  for  servants,  and  so  forth. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          87 

The  Duciehurst  plantation-house  is  the  nearest  man 
sion.  It  is  really  a  ruin,  now,  and  uninhabited,  I 
suppose,  but  it  was  good  enough  in  its  day." 

A  sudden  portentous  gravity  smote  the  counte 
nance  of  Adrian  Ducie.  Although  the  risible  muscles 
and  ligaments  still  held  the  laughing  contour,  all 
the  mirth  was  gone  out  of  it.  His  face  was  as  if 
stricken  into  stone,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  beheld  the 
Gorgon  Head  of  trouble.  The  change  was  so 
marked,  so  momentous,  that  Colonel  Kenwynton, 
forgetting  for  the  moment  whence  came  the  asso 
ciation  of  ideas,  suddenly  asked: 

"You  have  the  same  name  as  the  former  owner, 
Mr.  Ducie,  though  I  suppose  you  don't  hold  the 
title  to  the  mansion?" 

"Oh,  I  hold  the  title  fast  enough,"  replied  Ducie, 
with  his  wonted  off-hand  manner,  "though  it's  like 
my  'title  to  a  mansion  in  the  skies,'  I  can't  read  it 
clear." 

Floyd-Rosney's  mood  was  already  lowering 
enough,  but  for  some  reason,  not  immediately  ap 
parent,  his  averse  discontent  was  fomented  by  the 
change  of  the  subject.  He  paused  with  his  tea-cup 
poised  in  his  hand.  His  deep  voice  weighed  more 
heavily  than  usual  on  the  silence. 

"It  seems  to  me  a  mis-statement  to  say  that  you 
have  a  title  to  the  property, — a  title  is  a  right. 
There  are  certainly  some  forty  years'  adverse  pos 
session  against  any  outstanding  claim,  of  which  I 
have  never  heard." 

Ducie  was  eyeing  Floyd-Rosney  with  a  look  at 
once  affronted  and  amazed.  "And  where  do  you 
derive  your  information  as  to  my  title  to  Ducie 
hurst?" 


88          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"I  have  no  information  as  to  your  title  to  Ducie- 
hurst,  which  is  the  reason  that  I  could  not  remain 
silent  when  such  title  was  asserted,  though  the  dis 
cussion  cannot  be  edifying  to  this  goodly  company." 
He  waved  his  hand  at  the  rows  of  breakfasting 
passengers  with  an  unmirthful  smile  and  his  cour 
tesy  was  so  perfunctory  as  obviously  to  have  no  root. 
"The  title  is  mine,  it  comes  to  me  within  the  year 
from  the  will  of  my  Uncle  Horace  Carriton,  who 
held  it  for  forty  years.  But/'  with  his  sour,  con 
descending  smile  at  the  company,  "the  courts  and 
not  the  breakfast  table  are  the  proper  place  to  as 
sert  a  right  that  is  not  barred  by  the  lapse  of  time." 

"The  remedy  may  be  barred,  but  not  the  right," 
Ducie  retorted  angrily. 

Captain  Disnett's  voice  sounded  with  pacifying 
intonations.  He  did  not  seek  to  change  the  subject 
but  to  steer  it  clear  of  breakers.  "I  never  could 
understand  why  Mr.  Carriton  let  the  old  mansion  go 
to  wreck  and  ruin,  fine  old  place  as  there  is  on  the 
river.  Though  he  rented  out  the  lands  the  house 
has  always  remained  untenanted." 

Mr.  Floyd-Rosney's  dignity  was  enhanced  by  the 
composure  which  he  found  it  possible  to  maintain 
in  this  nettling  discussion.  "The  house  was  much 
injured  by  the  occupancy  of  guerillas  and  military 
marauders  during  the  Civil  War,"  he  rejoined. 
"After  it  came  into  the  possession  of  my  uncle, 
when  peace  was  restored,  it  was  left  vacant  from 
necessity.  My  uncle,  who  was  a  non-resident, — lived 
in  Tennessee, — would  not  cut  up  the  plantation  into 
small  holdings;  many  tenants  make  much  mischief, 
so  he  preferred  to  lease  the  entire  place  to  some 
man  of  moderate  means  for  a  term  of  years,  as  no 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          89 

person  of  fortune  appeared  as  a  purchaser  of  the 
house,  which  it  would  cost  largely  to  restore.  None 
of  the  successive  lessees  was  able  or  willing  to  fur 
nish  or  maintain  the  mansion  in  a  style  suitable  to 
its  pretensions,  yet  they  were  too  proud  to  live  in 
a  corner  of  it  like  a  mouse  in  a  hole.  Such  a  man 
would  prefer  to  live  in  a  neighboring  villa  or  cottage 
while  farming  the  lands  as  better  suited  to  his  com 
fort  and  credit  than  that  vacant  wilderness  of  archi 


tecture." 


"Strange  visitors  it  must  have  at  odd  times," 
meditated  the  Captain.  "Once  in  a  while  in  our 
runs  I  have  seen  lights  flitting  about  there  at  night, 
quite  distinct  from  the  pilot-house.  And  in  wintry 
weather  a  gleam  shows  far  over  the  snow." 

"Tramps,  gipsies,  river-pirates,  I  suppose,"  sug 
gested  Coloned  Kenwynton. 

Ducie  was  glowering  down  at  his  spoon  as  he 
turned  it  aimlessly  in  his  empty  cup,  a  deep  red  flush 
on  his  cheek  and  his  eyes  on  fire. 

"Yes,  yes.  There  is  a  tradition  of  hidden  treasure 
at  Duciehurst,  one  of  the  wild  riverside  stories  as 
old  as  the  hills,"  said  the  Captain,  "and  I  suppose 
the  water-rats,  and  the  shanty-boaters,  and  the  river- 
pirates  all  take  turns  in  hunting  for  it  when  fuel  and 
shelter  get  scarce,  and  the  pot  boils  slow,  and  work 
goes  hard  with  the  lazy  cattle." 

For  one  moment  Colonel  Kenwynton's  head  was 
in  a  whirl.  Had  he  dreamed  this  thing,  this  story 
of  family  jewels  and  important  papers  stowed  in  a 
knapsack  and  hidden  on  Duciehurst  plantation?  So 
sudden  was  the  confirmation  of  the  war-time  legend, 
so  hard  it  came  on  the  revelation  of  last  night  in  the 
turbulent  elements  on  the  verge  of  the  sand-bar  that 


90          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

it  scarcely  seemed  fact.  He  had  not  had  time  to 
think  it  over,  to  canvass  the  strange  chance  in  his 
mind.  Treherne  had  declared  that  for  forty  years 
he  had  been  an  inmate  of  an  insane  asylum.  With 
out  analyzing  his  own  mental  processes  Colonel 
Kenwynton  was  aware  that  he  had  taken  it  for 
granted  that  the  story  was  a  vain  fabrication  of 
half-distraught  faculties,  an  illusion,  a  part  of  the 
unreasoning  adventure  that  had  summoned  him  forth 
from  his  bed  in  the  midnight  to  stand  knee-deep 
in  the  marsh  to  hear  a  recital  of  baffled  rights  and 
hidden  treasure.  In  all  charity  and  candor  he  had 
begun  to  wonder  that  Hugh  Treherne  should  find 
himself  now  beyond  the  bounds  of  detention.  In 
these  corroborative  developments,  however,  his 
opinion  veered  and  he  made  a  plunge  at  further 
elucidation  of  the  mystery. 

"Mr.  Ducie,  I  should  be  glad  to  know  what  re 
lation  you  are  to  Lieutenant  Archibald  Ducie,  who 
died  of  typhoid  in  a  hospital  in  Vicksburg  during 
the  war?" 

Ducie  answered  in  a  single  word,  "Nephew." 
"Then  you  are  George   Blewitt  Ducie's  grand 


son." 


"Grandson,"  monosyllabic  as  before. 

The  old  man  thought  himself  a  strategist  of  deep, 
elusive  craft.  For  the  sake  of  his  friend,  Captain 
Treherne,  and  his  plaintive  disability;  for  the  sake 
of  the  implied  trust  accepted  in  the  fact  that  he 
had  received  this  confidence,  he  must  seek  to  know 
the  truth  while  he  screened  the  motive.  "Well, 
since  these  old  world  clavers  are  mighty  interesting 
to  an  ancient  fossil  such  as  I  am, — I  must  look  back 
ward,  having,  you  know,  no  future  in  view, — wasn't 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          91 

there  some  talk  of  a  lost  document,  a  deed  of  trust 
missing,  mislaid, — what  was  it  about — a  Duciehurst 
mortgage?" 

"A  release  of  a  mortgage,"  replied  Ducie,  his 
words  coming  with  the  impetus  and  fury  of  hot  shot. 
"The  lost  paper  was  a  release  of  a  mortgage,  a 
quit-claim,  signed  and  witnessed,  but  not  registered. 
There  were  no  facilities  at  the  time  to  record  legal 
papers,  not  a  court  nor  a  clerk's  office  open  in  the 
country,  which  was  filled  with  contending  armies." 

Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  had  finished  his  breakfast  and 
seemed  about  to  rise.  The  vexation  of  this  discus 
sion  was  beyond  endurance  to  a  proud  and  pompous 
man.  But  it  was  not  his  temperament  to  give  back 
one  inch.  He  stood  his  ground  and  presently  he 
began  to  affect  indifference  to  the  situation,  placing 
an  elbow  on  the  table  and  looking  with  his  imperious 
composure  first  at  one  speaker  and  then  at  the  other. 
He  was  not  so  absorbed,  however,  that  he  did  not 
note  how  his  wife  loitered  over  the  waffles  before 
her,  spinning  out  the  details  of  the  meal  that  no 
point  of  the  conversation  might  escape  her. 

"I  remember  now,  I  remember,"  said  Colonel 
Kenwynton,  nodding  his  white  head.  "It  was 
claimed  that  the  mortgage  was  lifted,  the  debt  being 
paid  in  gold,  and  that  a  formal  release  was  exe 
cuted  here  in  Mississippi  and  delivered  with  the 
original  paper,  though  not  noted  in  the  instrument 
of  registration." 

"There  being  no  courts  in  operation,"  interpolated 
Ducie,  obviously  as  restive  as  a  fiery  horse. 

"And  by  reason  of  the  intervention  of  the  Fed 
eral  lines  and  the  sudden  deaths  of  the  two  prin 
cipals  to  the  transaction  the  promissory  notes,  thus 


92          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

secured  on  the  plantation,  were  not  returned  to  the 
maker,  but  remained  in  Tennessee,  where  Mr.  Car 
roll  Carriton  had  deposited  them  in  a  bank  for  safe 
keeping." 

"Is  this  a  fairy-story,  Colonel  Kenwynton?" 
sneered  Floyd-Rosney,  his  patience  wearing  thin 
under  the  strain  upon  it,  and  beginning  to  deprecate 
and  doubt  the  effect  on  his  wife. 

"No,  it  is  a  story  of  the  evil  genii,"  said  Ducie, 
significantly. 

"You  mean  War  and  Confusion,  and  Loss,"  said 
Floyd-Rosney,  in  bland  interpretation,  and  appar 
ently  in  excellent  temper.  "They  are,  indeed,  the 
evil  genii.  But  you  will  please  to  observe,  Colonel 
Kenwynton,  that  the  executors  of  the  mortgagee, 
Mr.  Carroll  Carriton,  could  not  accept  this  unsup 
ported  representation  of  an  executed  release  of  the 
mortgage.  The  executors  had  the  registered  mort 
gage,  with  no  marginal  notation  of  its  satisfaction, 
and  they  had  the  promissory  notes.  They  sued  the 
estate  of  George  Blewitt  Ducie  on  the  promissory 
notes  and  foreclosed  on  Duciehurst." 

"I  remember,  I  remember,"  said  Colonel  Ken 
wynton,  "and  although  at  the  period  when  the  mort 
gage  was  made  it  was  for  a  sum  inconsiderable  in 
comparison  with  the  value  of  the  property  Ducie 
hurst  went  under  the  hammer  in  the  collapsed  finan 
cial  conditions  subsequent  to  the  war  for  less  than 
the  amount  of  the  original  indebtedness,  plantations 
being  a  drug  on  the  market,  and  the  executors  of 
the  mortgagee  bought  it  in  for  the  Carriton  estate." 

"The  executors  proceeded  throughout  under  the 
sanction  of  the  court,"  said  Floyd-Rosney.  "Of 
course,  I  would  have  the  utmost  sensitiveness  to  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          93 

position  of  an  interloper  or  usurper,  but  in  this 
instance  there  can  be  no  such  suggestion.  No  papers 
could  be  produced  by  the  defendant,  and  a  wild 
legend  of  the  loss  of  such  documents  could  not  with 
stand  the  scrutiny  of  even  the  least  cautious  and 
strict  chancellor.  The  fact  that  Carroll  Carriton 
happened  to  be  in  Mississippi  at  that  time  and  that 
George  Blewitt  Ducie  was  known  to  have  aggre 
gated  a  considerable  sum  in  gold  by  a  successful 
blockade-running  scheme  of  selling  cotton  in  Liver 
pool  was  dwelt  upon  by  the  counsel  for  the  Ducie 
heir  as  corroborative  evidence  that  the  two  principals 
to  the  transaction  met  expressly  to  lift  the  incum- 
brance,  but  this  contention  was  not  admitted  by  the 
court." 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  di 
rectly  upon  Ducie.  "While  I  should  be  sorry,  Mr. 
Ducie,  if  you  should  grudge  me  my  rightful  holding, 
I  observe  that  your  brother  does  not  share  your 
view.  He  acquiesced  in  the  existing  status  by  rent 
ing  certain  of  these  lands  while  in  my  uncle's  posses 
sion  before  I  succeeded  under  the  will." 

"By  no  means,  by  no  means,"  cried  Ducie,  furi 
ously.  "He  is  no  tenant  of  yours.  He  only  pur 
chased  the  standing  crop  of  cotton  from  your  uncle's 
tenant,  who  was  obliged  to  leave  the  country  for  a 
time — shot  a  man.  But,  as  I  understand  it,  you 
could  not  plead  that  acquiescence,  even  if  it  existed, 
in  the  event  that  the  release  could  be  found, — take 
advantage  of  your  own  tort  in  the  foreclosure  of  a 
mortgage  duly  paid." 

"Oh,  if  you  talk  of  'torts,'  this  'knowledge  is 
too  excellent  for  me,  I  cannot  attain  unto  it.'  " 
Floyd-Rosney  retorted,  lightly. 


94          THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

His  wife  still  held  her  fork  in  her  hand,  but  he 
significantly  placed  her  finger-bowl  beside  her  plate. 
Then  he  rose.  "Any  rights  that  you  can  prove  to 
my  estate  of  Duciehurst,  Mr.  Ducie,  will  be  gladly 
conceded  by  me.  Kindly  remember  that,  if  you 
please/' 

His  wife  was  constrained  to  rise  and  he  stood 
aside  with  a  bow  to  let  her  pass  first  down  the  re 
stricted  space  between  the  tables  and  the  wall.  They 
were  out  on  the  guards  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
his  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

uWhy  did  you  never  tell  me  that  the  property 
which  has  lately  come  to  you  really  belongs  to  the 
Ducies?" 

He  stared  down  at  her,  too  astonished  to  be 
angry. 

"Why?  Because  it  is  a  lie.  The  Ducies  have  not 
a  vestige  of  a  right  to  it." 

"Oh,  no,  no.  The  Ducies  would  never  seek  to 
maintain  a  lie.  Only  they  can't  substantiate  their 
claim  on  account  of  the  disastrous  chances  of  war." 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  face  and  shook  her 
head.  When  she  looked  up  again  there  were  vague 
blue  circles  beneath  her  eyes.  The  nervous  stress 
of  the  incident  and  some  unformulated  association 
with  the  idea  were  obviously  bearing  on  her  heavily. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  we  ought  not  to  keep  it," 
she  faltered. 

"Keep  it!"  he  thundered.  "Why,  we,  that  is  our 
predecessors,  have  owned  it  for  the  last  forty  years, 
without  a  question.  Why,  Paula,  are  you  crazy? 
The  whole  affair  went  through  the  courts  forty 
years  ago.  'Ought  not  to  keep  it!'  The  Ducie  heir, 
this  man's  father,  who  was  then  a  minor,  had  not  a 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          95 

scrap  of  paper  nor  one  material  witness,  only  the 
general  understanding  in  the  country  that  as  Carroll 
Carriton  happened  to  be  in  Mississippi  at  the  time, 
and  George  Blewitt  Ducie  had  a  lot  of  specie  from 
running  his  cotton  through  the  blockade  to  Eng 
land,  he  paid  off  the  mortgage  in  gold.  But  that 
was  mere  hearsay,  chiefly  rumor  of  the  gabble  of 
the  men  who,  it  was  claimed,  had  witnessed  the  exe 
cution  of  the  quit-claim,  and  who  took  occasion  to 
die  immediately  thereafter." 

"There  is  some  inherent  coercive  evidence,  to  my 
mind,  of  the  truth  of  those  circumstances,"  she  de- 
declared.  "It  is  too  hard  that  the  Ducies  should 
have  paid  the  money  owed  on  the  mortgage  and 
then  lose  the  place  by  foreclosure,  and,  oh,  for  less 
than  the  amount  of  the  original  debt." 

"But,  Paula,  can't  you  see  there  is  not  a  grain  of 
proof  that  they  ever  paid  the  money?  How,  when, 
where?  We  held  the  promissory  notes  and  the 
registered  deed  of  trust  and  the  court  did  not  even 
take  the  matter  under  advisement." 

"But  you  know  the  confusion  of  the  times, — no 
courts  of  record,  no  mail  facilities  or  means  of 


communication." 


"Much  exaggerated,  I  believe.  But  at  all  events 
we  had  the  promissory  notes  and  the  registered  mort 
gage  and  they  had  their  cock-and-bull  story." 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to  give  it  back, — it  would  be  so 
noble  of  you.  I  cannot  bear  that  we  should  own 
what  the  Ducies  claim  is  theirs,  and  I  feel  sure  that 
if  it  is  not  theirs  in  law  it  is  by  every  moral  sanction. 
And  for  such  a  poor  price ! — to  lose  the  whole  estate 
for  the  little  amount,  comparatively,  of  the  debtl 


96          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

It  is  too  sharp  a  bargain  for  us.  How  much  was 
the  amount  for  which  the  executors  bought  it  in?" 

His  face  changed  and  he  did  not  answer.  It  had 
not  been  a  pleasant  morning,  and  his  imperious 
temper  had  been  greatly  strained.  "I  remember," 
he  said,  satirically,  losing  his  self-control  at  last, 
"that  you  once  entertained  a  tender  interest  in  one 
of  these  Messieurs  Ducie.  I  must  say  that  I  did  not 
expect  it  to  last  so  long  or  to  go  so  far, — to  propose 
to  denude  me  of  my  very  own,  one  of  the  finest  prop 
erties  in  Mississippi,  and  vest  him  with  it!" 

Her  face  flushed.  Her  eyes  flashed.  "You  have 
broken  your  promise !  You  have  broken  your  prom 
ise!"  She  looked  so  vehement,  so  affronted,  so 
earnest,  that  her  anger  tamed  him  for  a  moment. 

"It  was  inadvertent,  dear.  The  circumstances 
forced  it." 

"It  was  solemnly  agreed  between  us  that  we 
would  never  mention  this  man,  never  remember  that 
he  existed.  When  I  promised  to  marry  you  I  told 
you  frankly  that  I  had  been  engaged  to  him,  and 
had  never  a  thought,  a  hope,  a  wish,  but  that  I 
might  marry  him,  until  I  met  you." 

"I  know,  dear,  I  remember."  His  warm  hand 
closed  down  on  her  trembling  fingers  that  she  had 
laid  on  the  railing  of  the  guards  as  if  for  support. 

"It  is  a  matter  of  pride  with  me.  I  have  no  idea 
that  I  should  feel  so  about  it  if  it  were  any  one  else. 
But,  of  course,  I  know  that  he  must  reproach  me  for 
my  duplicity,  my  inconstancy — " 

"But  you  do  not  reproach  yourself,"  with  a  quick, 
searching  glance. 

"No,  no,  I  was  not  inconstant.  Only  then  I  had 
not  met  you.  But  I  have  caused  him  unhappiness, 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          97 

and  a  sort  of  humiliation  among  his  friends,  who 
consider  that  I  threw  him  over  at  the  last  minute, 
and  I  cannot  bear  to  own  anything  that  he  accounts 
his.  I  don't  want  his  land.  I  don't  want  his  house. 
I  wish  you  would  deed  it  all  back  to  him. 

"You  tiresome  little  dunce!"  he  exclaimed,  laugh 
ing.  "It  is  one  of  the  largest  plantations  in  acreage, 
cleared  and  tillable,  in  Mississippi,  and  I  really 
should  not  like  to  say  how  much  it  is  worth,  espe 
cially  now  with  the  price  of  cotton  on  the  bounce. 
People  would  think  I  was  crazy  if  I  did  such  a  mad 
thing  as  to  deed  it  back.  I  should  be  unfitted  for 
any  part  in  the  business  world.  No  one  would  trust 
me  for  a  moment.  And  apart  from  my  own  inter 
est,  consider  our  son.  What  would  he  think  of  me, 
of  you,  when  he  comes  to  man's  estate,  if  we  should 
alienate  for  a  whim  that  fine  property,  of  which  he 
might  one  day  stand  in  dire  need.  Change  is  the 
order  of  the  times.  Edward  Floyd-Rosney,  Junior, 
may  not  have  a  walk  over  the  course  as  his  father 
did." 

"But,  Edward,  we  are  rich — " 

"And  so  would  the  Ducies  be,  by  hook  or  by 
crook,  if  they  knew  what  is  comfortable."  He 
laughed  prosperously.  He  was  tired  of  the  sub 
ject,  and  was  turning  away  as  he  drew  forth  his 
cigar-case.  He  was  good  to  himself,  and  fostered 
his  taste  for  personal  luxury,  even  in  every  minute 
manner  that  would  not  be  ridiculously  obtrusive 
as  against  the  canons  of  good  taste.  The  ring  on 
the  third  finger  of  his  left  hand  might  seem,  to  the 
casual  glance  of  the  uinitiated,  the  ordinary  seal  so 
much  affected,  but  a  connoisseur  would  discern  in  it 
a  priceless  intaglio.  The  match-box  which  he  held 


98          THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

as  he  walked  away  along  the  guards  was  of  solid 
gold,  richly  chased.  His  clothes  were  the  master 
pieces  of  a  London  tailor  of  the  first  order,  but  so 
decorous  and  inconspicuous  in  their  fine  simplicity 
that  but  for  their  enhancement  of  his  admirable 
figure  and  grace  of  movement  their  quality  and  cost 
might  have  passed  unnoticed. 

Paula  looked  after  him  with  an  intent  and 
troubled  gaze,  her  heart  pulsing  tumultuously,  her 
brain  on  fire.  It  would  never  have  been  within  her 
spiritual  compass  to  make  a  conscious  sacrifice  of 
self  for  a  point  of  ethics.  She  could  not  have  re 
linquished  aught  that  she  craved,  or  that  was  sig 
nificant  in  its  effects.  To  own  Duciehurst  would 
make  no  item  of  difference  in  the  luxury  of  their  life, 
— to  give  it  up  could  in  no  way  reduce  their  conse 
quence  or  splendor  of  appointment.  To  her  the  ac 
quisition  of  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  more  or 
less,  signified  naught  in  an  estate  of  millions.  They 
were  rich,  they  had  every  desire  of  luxury  or  os 
tentation  gratified, — what  would  they  have  more? 
But  that  this  prosperity  should  be  fostered,  ag 
grandized  by  the  loss  of  the  man  whom  she  had 
causelessly  jilted,  wounded  her  pride.  It  was  pe 
culiarly  lacerating  to  her  sensibilities  that  her  hus 
band  should  own  Randal  Ducie's  ancestral  estate, 
bought  under  the  disastrous  circumstances  of  a 
forced  sale  for  a  mere  trifle  of  its  value,  and  that 
she  should  be  enriched  by  this  almost  thievish  chance. 
She  could  not  endure  that  it  should  be  Randal 
Ducie  at  last  from  whom  she  should  derive  some  part 
of  the  luxury  which  she  had  craved  and  for  which 
she  had  bartered  his  love — that  he  should  be  bravely 
struggling  on,  bereft  of  his  inheritance,  in  that  sane 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST          99 

and  simple  sphere  to  which  she  had  looked  back 
last  night  as  another  and  a  native  world,  from 
which  she  was  exiled  to  this  realm  of  alien  and 
flamboyant  splendor,  that  suddenly  had  grown 
strangely  garish  and  bitter  to  the  taste  as  she  con 
templated  it.  What,  indeed,  did  it  signify  to  her? — 
She  had  no  part,  no  choice  in  dispensing  her  hus 
band's  wealth.  Everything  was  brought  to  her  hand, 
regardless  of  her  wish  or  volition,  as  if  she  were 
a  puppet.  Even  her  charities,  her  appropriate  pose 
as  a  "lady  bountiful,"  were  not  spontaneous.  "I 
think  you  had  better  subscribe  two  hundred  dollars 
to  the  refurnishing  of  the  Old  Woman's  Home, 
Paula, — it  is  incumbent  in  your  position, "  he  would 
say,  or  "I  made  a  contribution  of  five  hundred  in 
your  name  to  the  Children's  Hospital, — it  is  ex 
pected  that  in  your  position  you  would  do  some 
thing."  Her  position — this  made  the  exaction,  not 
charity,  not  humanity,  not  generosity.  But  for  the 
mention  in  the  local  journals  the  institutions  of  the 
city  would  never  have  known  the  lavish  hand  of  one 
of  its  wealthiest  and  most  prominent  citizens.  The 
money  would,  doubtless,  do  good  even  bestowed  in 
this  spirit,  but  the  gift  had  no  blessing  for  the  giver, 
and  she  felt  no  glow  of  gratulation.  Indeed,  it  was 
not  a  gift, — it  was  a  tax  paid  on  her  position.  More 
than  once  when  she  had  advocated  a  donation  on  her 
own  initiative  he  had  promptly  negatived  the  idea. 
"No  use  in  that,"  he  would  declare,  or  the  story  of 
destitution  and  disaster  was  a  "fake."  These  in 
stances  were  not  calculated  to  illustrate  her  position. 
She  could  not  endure  that  it  should  levy  its  tribute 
on  Randal  Ducie's  future,  and  she  noted  the  sig- 


100        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

nificant  fact  that  always  hitherto  in  mentioning  the 
recent  acquisition  under  his  kinsman's  will  her  hus 
band  had  avoided  the  name  of  the  estate  which  must 
have  acquainted  her  with  its  former  ownership. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  weather  had  been  vaguely  misting  all  the 
dreary  morning.  Through  a  medium  not  rain,  yet 
scarcely  of  the  tenuity  of  vapor,  Paula  had  gazed 
at  the  tawny  flow  of  the  swift  river,  the  limited  per 
spective  of  the  banks,  the  tall  looming  of  the  for 
ests,  the  slate-tinted  sky,  all  dim  and  dull  like  a 
landscape  in  outline  half  smudged  in  with  a  stump. 
Suddenly  this  meager  expression  of  the  world  be 
yond  was  withdrawn  from  contemplation.  In  the 
infinitely  dull  silence  the  fall  of  tentative  drops  on 
the  hurricane  deck  was  presently  audible,  and,  all  at 
once,  there  gushed  forth  from  the  low-hung  clouds  a 
tremendous  down-pour  of  torrents  beneath  which  the 
Cherokee  Rose  quivered.  Paula  turned  quickly  to 
the  door  of  the  saloon,  which  barely  closed  upon  her 
before  the  guards  were  swept  by  floods  of  water. 

The  whole  interior  resounded  with  the  beat  of 
scurrying  footsteps  fleeing  to  shelter  from  this 
abrupt  outbreak  of  the  elements.  Squads  of  the  pas 
sengers,  or,  sometimes,  a  single  fugitive  came  at  in 
tervals  bursting  into  the  saloon,  gasping  with  the 
effects  of  surprise,  and  the  effort  at  speed,  laughing, 
flushed,  agitated,  recounting  their  narrow  escapes 
from  drenching  or  submergence.  Two  or  three,  in 
deed,  had  caught  a  ducking  and  were  repairing  to 
their  staterooms  for  dry  clothing.  There  was  much 
sound  of  activity  from  the  boiler  deck  as  the  roust- 

101 


102        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

abouts  ran  boisterously  in  and  out  of  the  rain,  busied 
in  protecting  freight  or  in  sheltering  the  few  head 
of  stock.  The  whole  episode  seemed  charged  with 
a  cheerful  sense  of  a  jolt  of  the  monotony. 

A  group  of  gentlemen  who  did  not  accompany 
ladies  or  who  were  not  acquainted  with  those  on 
board  gathered  in  the  forward  cabin,  but  Ducie  sat 
silent  and  listless  in  one  of  the  arm-chairs  in  the  sa 
loon.  Apparently,  he  desired  to  show  the  Floyd- 
Rosneys  that  he  perceived  no  cause  for  embarrass 
ment  in  their  society  and  had  no  intention  by  with 
drawing  of  ameliorating  any  awkwardness  which  his 
presence  might  occasion  to  them.  There  were  very 
acceptable  and  cozy  suggestions  here.  Hildegarde 
Dean  sat  at  the  piano  with  the  two  old  soldiers 
beside  her.  The  blind  Major,  who  had  a  sweet 
tenor  voice,  albeit  hopelessly  attenuated  now,  some 
tones  in  the  upper  register  cracked  beyond  repair  in 
this  world,  would  sing  sotto  voce  a  stanza  of  an  old 
war  song,  utterly  unknown  to  the  girl  of  the  present 
day,  and  Hildegarde,  listening  attentively,  would 
improvise  an  accompaniment  with  refrain  and  ritor- 
nello  in  a  vague  tentative  way  like  one  recalling  a 
lost  memory.  Suddenly  she  would  throw  up  her 
head,  her  hands  would  crash  out  the  confident  tema, 
Colonel  Kenwynton's  powerful  bass  tones  would 
boom  forth,  and  the  old  blind  Major's  tremulous 
voice  would  soar  on  the  wings  of  his  enthusiasm, 
and  his  memories  of  the  days  of  yore.  Meantime, 
the  girl's  fresh  young  face,  between  the  two  old 
withered  masks,  would  glow,  the  impersonation  of 
kindly  reverent  youth  and  sweet  peace  and  the  sen 
timent  of  harmony. 

It  was  pleasant  to  listen  as  song  succeeded  song. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        103 

Hildegarde's  mother,  soft-eyed,  soft-mannered  and 
graceful,  still  youthful  of  aspect,  smiled  in  her  sym 
pathetic  accord.  Two  or  three  of  the  more  elderly 
passengers  now  and  again  recognized  a  strain  that 
brought  back  a  long  vanished  day.  An  old  lady  had 
taken  out  her  fancy  work  and,  as  she  plied  her  deft 
needle  in  the  intricate  pattern  of  the  Battenberg,  she 
nodded  her  head  appreciatively  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
music,  and  looked  as  if  she  had  no  special  desire  for 
her  journey's  end  or  a  life  beyond  the  sand-bar. 

When  the  repertoire  was  exhausted  and  silence 
ensued  the  blank  was  presently  filled  by  childish 
voices  and  laughter.  Marjorie  Ashley  had  begun 
to  lead  little  Ned  Floyd-Rosney  about,  introducing 
him  to  the  various  passengers  disposed  on  the  sofas 
and  rocking-chairs  of  the  saloon.  In  this  scion  of 
the  Floyd-Rosney  family  seemed  concentrated  all 
its  geniality.  He  was  a  whole-souled  citizen  and 
not  only  accepted  courtesies  with  jovial  urbanity  but 
himself  made  advances.  He  had,  indeed,  something 
the  tastes  of  a  roisterer,  and  his  father  regarded, 
with  open  aversion,  his  disposition  to  carouse  with 
his  fellow-passengers.  In  his  arrogant  exclusiveness 
Floyd-Rosney  revolted  from  the  promiscuous  atten 
tions  lavished  on  the  child.  He  resented  the  inti 
macy  which  the  affable  infant  had  contracted  with 
Marjorie  Ashley,  the  two  children  rejoicing  ex 
tremely  when  the  old  nurse  had  been  summoned 
to  her  breakfast,  thus  consigning  him  in  the  inter 
val  to  the  care  of  his  mother,  and  rendering  him 
more  accessible  to  the  blandishments  of  his  new 
friend.  Floyd-Rosney  felt  that  it  was  not  appropri 
ate  that  he  should  be  thrust  forward  in  this  unseemly 
publicity  thus  scantily  attended.  It  was  the  habit 


104.        THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

of  the  family  to  travel  in  state,  with  Floyd-Rosney's 
valet,  the  lady's  maid,  a  French  bonne  for  the  boy, 
in  addition  to  the  old  colored  nurse  in  whom  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney  had  such  confidence  that  she  would 
not  transfer  the  child  wholly  to  other  tendance.  The 
occasion  of  this  journey,  however,  did  not  admit  of 
such  a  retinue.  It  was  a  visit  of  condolence  which 
they  had  made  to  an  aunt  of  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney 
who  had  lost  her  son,  formerly  a  very  intimate 
friend  of  his  own.  She  was  an  aged  lady  of  limited 
means  and  a  modest  home.  To  descend  upon  a 
household  of  simple  habitudes,  already  disorganized 
by  recent  illness  and  death,  with  a  troop  of  strange 
servants  to  be  cared  for  and  accommodated,  was 
manifestly  so  inappropriate  that  even  so  selfish 
a  man  as  Floyd-Rosney  did  not  entertain  the  idea,  al 
though  his  wife  received  in  his  querulous  asides  the 
full  benefit  of  all  the  displeasure  and  inconvenience 
that  he  experienced  from  "having  to  jaunt  about  the 
world  with  no  attendant  but  the  child's  nurse."  The 
nurse,  "Aunt  Dorothy,"  as  in  the  southern  fashion 
she  was  respectfully  called,  had,  perhaps,  found 
company  at  breakfast  agreeable  to  her  of  her  own 
race  and  condition,  and  her  absence  was  prolonged, 
which  fact  gave  Marjorie  Ashley  the  opportunity  to 
make  again  the  round  of  the  group  of  passengers 
in  the  saloon,  cajoling  little  Ned  Floyd-Rosney  to 
show  them  how  he  pronounced  Miss  Dean's  Chris 
tian  name.  At  every  smiling  effort  she  would  burst 
into  gurgles  of  redundant  laughter,  so  funny  did 
"Miff  Milzepar'  "  for  "Miss  Hildegarde"  sound  in 
her  ears.  He  was  conscious  of  a  very  humorous 
effect  as  he  repeatedly  made  the  attempt  to  pro 
nounce  this  long  word  under  Marjorie's  urgency, 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        105 

gazing  up  the  while  with  his  big  blue  eyes  brimful 
of  laughter,  his  carmine  tinted  lips  ajar,  showing  his 
two  rows  of  small  white  teeth,  his  pink  cheeks  con 
tinually  fluctuating  with  a  deeper  flush,  and  his  be 
guiling  dimples  on  display.  All  the  ladies  and  sev 
eral  of  the  gentlemen  caught  him  up  and  kissed  him 
ecstatically;  so  enticing  a  specimen  of  joyous,  sweet- 
humored,  fresh-faced  childhood  he  presented.  His 
mother's  maternal  pride  glowed  in  her  smile  as  she 
noted  and  graciously  accepted  the  tribute,  but  Floyd- 
Rosney  fumed  indignant. 

"Why  don't  you  stop  that,  Paula?"  he  growled  in 
her  ear  as  he  cast  himself  down  on  the  sofa  beside 
her.  "All  that  kissing  is  dangerous." 

"It  has  been  going  on  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  accelerando,  as  the  opportunities  multiply," 
she  retorted  with  her  satiric  little  fleer. 

"Be  pleased  to  notice  that  I  am  serious,"  he 
hissed  in  his  gruff  undertone. 

"You  can  easily  make  me  serious, — don't  over 
exert  yourself,"  she  said  with  a  sub-current  of  in 
dignation. 

She  deprecated  this  public  display  of  his  surly 
mood  toward  her.  There  is  no  woman,  whether 
cherished  or  neglected,  loving  or  indifferent,  gifted 
or  deficient,  who  does  not  arrogate  in  public  the 
scepter  in  her  husband's  affections,  who  is  not 
wounded  to  the  quick  by  the  slightest  suggestion  of 
reproof,  or  disparagement,  or  even  the  assertion  of 
his  independent  sentiment  when  brought  to  the  no 
tice  of  others.  This  is  something  that  finds,  even  in 
the  most  long-suffering  wife,  a  keen  new  nerve  to 
thrill  with  an  undreamed  of  pain.  Paula's  cheek 
had  flushed,  her  eyes  were  hot  and  excited, — indeed, 


106        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

she  did  not  lift  them.  She  could  not  brook  the  in 
dignity  that  the  coterie,  most  of  all,  Adrian  Ducie, 
should  see  her  husband  at  her  side  with  a  stern  and 
corrugated  brow,  whispering  in  her  ear  his  angry 
rebukes,  commands,  comments, — who  could  know 
what  he  might  have  to  say  to  her  with  that  furious 
face  and  through  his  set  teeth.  The  situation  was  in 
tolerable;  her  pride  groped  for  a  means  of  escape. 

Then  she  did  a  thing  that  she  felt  afterward 
she  could  never  have  done  had  she  not  in  that  mo 
ment  unconsciously  ceased  to  love  her  husband.  She 
shielded  him  no  more  as  heretofore.  She  did  not 
sacrifice  herself,  as  was  her  custom  in  a  thousand 
small  preferences.  She  did  not  assume  his  whim 
that  he  might  be  satisfied,  yet  incur  no  responsibility 
or  ridicule.  On  the  contrary,  she  led  the  laugh, — 
she  delivered  him,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to  the 
scoffer. 

She  suddenly  rose,  and,  with  her  graceful,  wil 
lowy  gait,  walked  conspicuously  down  the  middle  of 
the  saloon.  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,  fellow  travelers 
and  companions  in  misery,"  she  said,  swaying  for 
ward  in  an  exaggerated  bow,  "the  heir  to  the  throne 
must  not  be  kissed.  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  is  a  victim 
of  the  theory  of  osculatory  microbes.  You  can  only 
be  permitted  to  taste  how  sweet  the  baby  is  through 
his  honeyed  words  and  his  dulcet  laughter.  Why, 
he  might  catch  a  tobacco-bug  from  these  human 
smoke-stacks,  or  the  chewing-gum  habit  from  Mar- 
jorie  Ashley.  Therefore,  you  had  better  turn  him 
over  to  me  and  the  same  old  germs  he  is  accustomed 
to  when  his  muzzer  eats  him  up." 

Forthwith  she  swung  the  big  child  up  lightly  in 
her  slender  arms  and,  with  gurgles  of  laughter,  de- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        107 

voured  him  with  her  lips,  while  he  squealed,  and 
hugged,  and  kicked,  and  vigorously  returned  the 
kisses.  Then  she  held  him  head  downward,  with  his 
curls  dangling  and  apparently  all  the  blood  in  his 
body  surging  through  the  surcharged  veins  of  his 
red  face  as  he  screamed  in  delight. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,"  said  the  wondering 
Marjorie  volubly,  "everybody  on  the  boat  has  been 
kissing  Ned  ever  since  he  came  aboard.  The  mate 
says  he  is  so  sweet  that  he  took  Ned's  finger  to  stir 
his  coffee  with  and  declared  it  needed  no  other  sweet 
ening,  either  long  or  short.  And  little  Ned  believed 
him  and  sat  on  his  knee  while  he  ate  his  breakfast 
waiting  to  stir  his  second  cup  for  him.  Ned  has 
got  a  whole  heap  of  microbes  if  kissing  gives  Jem. 
Why,  even  that  big  deer-hound  that  is  freighted  to 
Vicksburg  and  has  been  sitting  the  picture  of  despair 
and  home-sickness,  refusing  to  eat, — dog-biscuit,  or 
meat,  or  anything, — just  tumbled  little  Ned  over  on 
the  deck  and  licked  his  face  from  his  hair  to  his  chin. 
And  when  he  let  Ned  up  at  last  Ned  just  hugged 
the  dog,  and  they  kissed  each  other  smack  in  the 
mouth.  Then  they  raced  up  and  down  the  deck 
among  the  freight,  playing  hide  and  seek  till  little 
Ned  could  hardly  stir.  Then  the  deer-hound  ate 
his  breakfast,  and  is  sitting  down  there  right  now, 
begging  the  leadsman  for  more." 

"Oh,  well,  then,  let  him  go  to  his  nurse  and  get 
his  mouth  washed  out  with  a  solution  of  carbolic 
acid  or  some  other  anti-toxin, — perhaps  that  may  be 
a  staggerer  for  the  microbes." 

She  let  the  child  slide  to  the  floor  and  then  fol 
lowed  the  tousled  little  figure  as  it  sped  in  a  swift 
trot  to  her  stateroom.  He  paused  for  her  to  turn 


108        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

the  bolt  of  the  door,  and  as  it  opened  he  slipped 
under  her  arm  and  disappeared,  microbe-laden, 
within. 

Her  husband  sat  silent,  dismayed,  amazed,  scarce 
ly  able  to  believe  his  senses.  He  was  of  the  type  of 
human  being  who,  subtly  and  especially  fitted  to 
cause  pain,  was  not  himself  adjusted  to  stoical  suf 
fering.  He  had  a  thousand  sensitive  fibers.  His 
pride  burned  within  him  like  an  actual  fire.  While 
it  was  appropriate  that  in  public  appearances  a 
wife  should  seem  to  be  the  predominant  considera 
tion,  there  being  more  grace  in  a  deferential  affecta 
tion  than  in  a  sultan-like  swagger,  this  pose  had  such 
scant  reality  in  the  domestic  economy  that  when 
Paula  presumed  upon  it  in  this  radical  nonchalance, 
he  was  at  once  astounded,  humiliated,  and  deeply 
wounded.  He  found  it  difficult  to  understand  so 
strange  a  departure  from  her  habitual  attitude 
toward  him,  his  relegation  to  the  satiric  methods 
with  which  she  favored  the  world  at  large,  the  mer 
ciless  exposure  to  ridicule  of  his  remonstrance,  which 
was,  indeed,  rather  the  vent  of  fretful  ill-humor 
than  any  genuine  objection  or  fear  of  infection.  The 
least  exertion  of  feminine  tact  in  response  to  his 
wish  would  have  quietly  spirited  the  child  away  and 
without  comment  ended  these  repugnant  caresses 
of  the  little  fellow  by  strangers.  Floyd-Rosney  be 
gan  to  experience  a  growing  conviction  that  it  all 
was  the  influence  of  the  presence  of  Ducie,  He  had 
had  some  queer,  not  unrelished,  yet  averse  interest 
in  studying  in  another  man  the  face  of  the  lover 
whom  he  had  supplanted.  He  could  scarcely  have 
brooked  the  sight  of  the  man  she  had  loved,  to  tran 
quilly  mark  his  facial  traits,  to  appraise  his  mental 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        109 

development,  to  speculate  on  his  social  culture  and 
worldly  opportunities.  But  this  was  merely  his  im 
age.  Here  was  his  twin  brother,  his  faithful  fac 
simile.  Floyd-Rosney  had  been  surprised  to  note 
how  handsome  he  was,  how  obviously  intelligent, 
how  dashing.  He  had  been  flattered  as  well, — this 
was  no  slight  mark  of  honest  preference  on  the  part 
of  Paula,  no  mean  rival  he  had  put  aside.  He  had 
felt  a  glow  of  added  pride  in  the  fact,  an  accession 
of  affection.  He  had  noted  the  studied  calm,  the 
inexpressive  pose,  the  haughty  simulation  of  indif 
ference  with  which  Ducie  had  sustained  the  awk 
ward  contretemps  of  their  meeting,  the  strain  upon 
savoir  faire  which  the  conventions  imposed  upon 
the  incident. 

And  now,  as  he  met  Ducie's  eyes  again,  he  per 
ceived  elation  in  them,  disproportionate,  futile,  but 
delighted.  It  was  the  most  trivial  of  foolish  trifles, 
Floyd-Rosney  said  to  himself,  but  this  man  had  seen 
him  set  at  naught,  put  to  the  blush,  held  up  to  ridi 
cule  by  his  wife,  airily  satiric,  utterly  unmindful 
of  his  dignity,  nay,  despising  its  tenuity,  and  leading 
the  laugh  at  his  discomfiture. 

Ducie  caught  himself  with  difficulty.  He  was  so 
conscious  of  the  unguarded  expression  of  his  face, 
the  look  of  relish,  of  triumph,  of  contempt  sur 
prised  in  his  eyes,  that  he  made  haste  to  nullify  the 
effect.  The  whole  affair  was  the  absent  Randal's, 
and  he  must  take  heed  that  he  did  not  interfere  by 
word  or  look  or  in  any  subtle  wise  in  what  did  not 
concern  him, — it  was,  indeed,  of  more  complicated 
intent  than  heretofore  he  was  aware.  He  was  a 
man  of  very  definite  tact  but  he  had  hardly  real 
ized  the  extent  of  the  endowment  until  that  mo- 


110       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

ment.  He  appreciated  the  subtle  value  of  his  own 
impulse,  as  if  it  had  been  another's,  when  he  said, 
directly  addressing  Floyd-Rosney,  as  if  there  had 
been  only  the  element  of  good-natured  joviality  in 
the  episode,  "I  think  we  are  all  likely  to  encounter 
dangers  more  formidable  than  microbes. — Have 
you  any  experience  of  cloud-bursts,  Mr.  Floyd-Ros 
ney?  This  fall  of  water  is  something  prodigious, 
to  my  mind." 

In  his  personal  absorptions  Floyd-Rosney  had  not 
noticed  the  rain.  "Is  it  more  than  a  'season,'  do 
you  think? — the  breaking  up  of  this  long  drought?" 
Floyd-Rosney  quickly  adopted  the  incidental  tone. 

He  was  so  essentially  a  proud  man  that  he  would 
fain  think  well  of  himself.  His  credulity  expanded 
eagerly  to  the  hope  that  to  others  the  episode  of 
the  morning  might  seem,  as  apparently  to  this  man, 
only  a  bit  of  gay  badinage,  the  feminine  insolence 
of  a  much  indulged  wife  to  her  lenient  lord  and 
master.  To  himself  it  could  not  bear  this  interpre 
tation,  nor  to  her.  He  could  never  forget  nor  for 
give  the  impulse  that  informed  it.  But  he  was  quick 
to  seize  the  opportunity  to  reinstate  his  self-pos 
session,  nay,  the  only  possibility  to  usave  his  face" 
and  hold  up  his  head.  Such  demands  his  assuming 
dignity  made  on  the  deference  of  all  about  him  that 
taken  in  this  wise  the  incident  could  hardly  appear 
serious. 

"If  there  were  thunder  and  lightning  it  might 
seem  the  equinoctial,"  said  Ducie,  "although  it  is 
something  late  in  the  year." 

They  had  walked  together  down  the  saloon  and 
to  the  forward  part  of  the  cabin  where  they  stood 
at  the  curving  glass  front  looking  out  on  vacancy. 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        111 

The  rain  fell,  not  in  torrents  now,  but  in  unbroken 
sheets  of  gray  crystal,  opaque  and  veined  with  white. 
As  the  water  struck  the  guards  it  rebounded  with 
the  force  of  the  downfall  in  white  foam  more  than 
a  foot  high,  while  sweeping  away  over  the  edge  with 
the  impetus  and  volume  of  a  cataract.  But  for  the 
list  of  the  boat,  for  the  Cherokee  Rose  had  not 
grounded  fair  and  square  on  the  sand-bar,  this  flood 
would  have  been  surging  through  the  saloon,  but 
the  rain  drove  with  the  gusts  and,  the  windward  side 
being  several  inches  lower  than  the  other,  the  down 
pour  struck  upon  it  and  recoiled  from  the  slant. 
The  sound  was  something  tremendous;  the  savagery 
of  the  roar  of  the  columns  of  rain  falling  upon  the 
roof  was  portentous,  sinister,  expressive  of  the  un 
reasoning  rage  of  the  tempestuous  elements  and  of 
the  helplessness  of  human  nature  to  cope  with  it. 
Suddenly,  whether  the  turmoil  had  in  some  sort 
abated,  or  alien  sounds  were  more  insistently  appar 
ent,  a  new  clamor  was  in  the  air, — a  metallic  clank 
ing,  repetitious,  constantly  loudening,  was  percepti 
ble  from  the  lower  deck.  Then  ensued  a  deep, 
long-drawn  susurrus.  The  engines  were  astir  once 
more.  Obviously,  an  effort  was  in  progress  to  get 
the  Cherokee  Rose  off  the  bar  under  her  own  steam. 
A  babel  of  joyous,  excited  comment  in  the  saloon, 
at  the  extreme  pitch  of  the  human  voice,  could 
hardly  be  heard  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  with 
out.  All  agreed  that  a  vast  flood  must  have  fallen 
to  raise  the  river  sufficiently  to  justify  the  attempt. 
"We  are  below  the  junction  of  several  tributaries 
in  this  vicinity  that  bring  down  a  million  tuns  a 
minute  in  such  weather  as  this,"  commented  one  of 
the  passengers. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

Another,  of  the  type  that  must  have  information 
at  first  hand,  rushed  to  the  door  to  secure  a  confer 
ence  with  the  Captain,  regardless,  or,  perhaps,  un 
conscious,  of  the  remonstrance  of  the  others.  As 
the  door  opened  in  his  hand  a  torrent  of  water 
rushed  in,  traversing  the  length  of  the  saloon  over 
the  red  velvet  carpet,  and  a  blast  of  the  wind 
promptly  knocked  him  off  his  feet,  throwing  him 
across  the  cabin  against  a  huddle  of  overturned 
chairs.  The  other  men,  with  one  accord,  sprang 
forward,  and  it  was  only  with  the  united  strength  of 
half  a  dozen  that  the  door  could  be  forced  to  close, 
although  its  lock  seemed  scarcely  able  to  hold  it 
against  the  pressure  from  without.  For  the  wind 
had  redoubled  its  fury.  This  region  is  the  lair  of 
the  hurricane,  and  there  was  a  prophetic  anxiety  in 
every  eye. 

It  is,  indeed,  well  that  these  great  elemental  ca 
tastrophes  are  as  transient  as  terrible.  Human 
nerves  could  scarcely  sustain  beyond  the  space  of  a 
minute  the  frightful  tumult  that  presently  filled  the 
air.  The  wind  shrilled  with  a  keen  sibilance,  and 
shouted  in  riotous  menace  that  seemed  to  strike 
against  the  zenith  and  rebound  and  reecho  anew. 
The  sense  of  its  speed  was  appalling.  The  thunder 
ous  crashing  of  the  forests  on  the  river  bank  told  of 
the  riving  of  timber  and  the  up-rooting  of  great 
trees  laid  flat  in  the  narrow  path  of  the  hurricane. 
For  in  the  limitations  of  the  track  lies  the  one  hope 
of  escape  from  this  sudden  frenzy  of  the  air.  Its 
area  of  destruction  may  be  fifty  miles  in  length,  but 
is  often  only  a  hundred  yards  or  so  in  width,  cut  as 
straight  as  a  road  and  as  regular,  when  this  awful, 
invisible  foe  marches  through  the  country.  Perhaps 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        113 

this  was  the  thought  in  the  mind  of  every  man  of 
the  little  coterie,  the  chance  that  the  Cherokee  Rose 
might  be  outside  the  path  of  the  hurricane.  The 
next  moment  a  hollow  reverberation  of  an  indescrib 
ably  wide  and  blaring  sound  broke  forth  close  at 
hand,  as  the  smoke-stacks  of  the  Cherokee  Rose 
crashed  down  on  the  texas  and  rolled  thence  on 
the  hurricane  deck,  the  guy  wires  jangling  loose  and 
shivering  in  keen,  metallic  tones.  The  boat  yawed 
over,  suddenly  smitten,  as  it  were,  by  one  fierce 
stroke.  The  furniture,  the  passengers,  all  were 
swept  down  the  inclined  plane  of  the  floor  of  the 
saloon  and  against  the  mirrored  doors  of  the  state 
rooms.  An  aghast  muteness  reigned  for  one  mo 
ment  of  surprise  and  terror.  Then  cries  broke  forth 
and  futile  and  frantic  efforts  were  made  to  reach  the 
upper  portion  of  the  cabin.  A  wild  alarm  was 
heard  that  the  boat  was  on  fire, — that  the  boat  had 
slipped  off  the  sand-bar  and  was  sinking.  Reiterated 
shouts  arose  for  the  officers,  the  Captain,  the  clerks, 
the  pilot,  the  mate,  and  the  tumult  without  was  re 
flected  by  the  confusion  and  terror  within. 

Ducie's  brain  seemed  awhirl  at  the  moment  of  the 
disaster.  As  he  regained  his  mental  poise  he  saw 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  on  her  knees  frantically  strug 
gling  with  the  door  of  her  stateroom,  the  lock  evi 
dently  having  somehow  sprung  in  the  contortions  of 
the  steamer  under  the  blast.  She  looked  up  at  him  for 
an  instant,  but  her  tongue  was  obviously  incapable 
of  framing  a  word  in  the  excitement  of  that  tempes 
tuous  crisis.  Ducie  suddenly  remembered,  what 
everyone  else  but  the  mother  had  forgotten,  that  the 
little  boy  had  scarcely  five  minutes  earlier  gone  to  the 
stateroom  to  be  dealt  with  for  the  kissing  microbes. 


114        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

Observing  the  inadequacy  of  her  efforts  Ducie 
rushed  to  her  assistance  and  sought,  by  main 
strength,  to  force  open  the  twisted  and  warped  door. 
It  was  so  difficult  to  effect  an  entrance  that  he  be 
gan  to  doubt  if  this  could  be  done  without  an  axe, 
when  he  succeeded  in  splintering  it  a  trifle  where  it 
had  already  showed  signs  of  having  sustained  a  frac 
ture.  Into  the  aperture  thus  made  he  thrust  his 
foot  and  then  wedged  in  his  knee,  finally  shattering 
a  panel  from  the  frame,  to  the  horror  of  the  pris 
oners  within,  whose  voices  of  terror  found  an  echo 
in  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  anguished  exclamations. 

Ducie  triumphantly  lifted  out  little  Ned  and  then 
the  old  colored  nurse  was  dragged  through  the  aper 
ture,  scarcely  sufficient  for  the  transit. 

"There  you  are,  good  as  new,"  cried  Ducie  geni 
ally. 

Some  of  the  doors  of  the  staterooms  had  burst 
from  their  fastenings,  and  were  sagging  and  sway 
ing  inward,  offering  pitfalls  for  the  unwary,  and,  in 
that  wild  and  excited  group,  Ducie  alone  bethought 
himself  of  precaution.  "Look  out  for  the  boy,  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney, — he  may  fall  through  one  of  those 
open  doors  into  deep  water  or  into  the  furnace, — I 
don't  know  what  is  now  beneath  this  part  of  the 
saloon, — the  boat  seems  twisted  and  broken  to 
pieces." 

The  suggestion  of  danger  to  the  child  was  like  a 
potent  elixir  to  Paula.  Her  eyes,  strained  and  set, 
recovered  their  normal  look  of  perception,  wild  and 
haggard  though  they  were.  She  caught  the  child  in 
her  arms  and,  although  trembling  and  occasionally 
staggering  under  his  weight,  she  would  not  relinquish 
him  to  Ducie  as  he  desired,  but  carried  him  her- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST         115 

self  safely  along  the  precarious  way.  Ducie  aided 
her  to  clamber  up  the  steep  incline  where  the  doors 
ceased  and  the  wall  was  unbroken,  there  being  here 
the  barber-shop  and  the  office,  and  the  large  space 
utilized  as  a  smoking-room.  Through  the  windows 
streamed  a  deluge  of  rain,  and  broken  glass  lay 
scattered  all  about. 

Most  of  the  passengers  had  gathered  here  in 
an  attitude  of  tense  expectancy.  A  man  stood  at  a 
speaking-tube  and,  with  a  lordly  urgency,  was  in 
sisting  that  the  Captain  should  take  immediate  meas 
ures  to  put  the  passengers  ashore  in  the  yawl.  It 
was  no  moment  to  relish  a  conspicuous  pose,  and 
Floyd-Rosney  was  too  well  habituated  to  the  first 
place  to  give  it  undue  value,  but  he  was  obviously 
in  his  element  and  carrying  all  before  him.  It  was 
a  one-sided  conversation,  but  the  comprehension  of 
his  listeners  was  quickened  by  their  personal  inter 
est  in  its  progress  and  result. 

"No  danger?"  a  sarcastic  laugh.  "We  take  the 
liberty  of  differing  as  to  that.  The  boat  may  go  to 
pieces  on  the  sand-bar." 

"A  shelter?  yes, — as  long  as  she  lasts,  but  how 
long  will  that  be  ?  The  boat  not  much  injured  ex 
cept  in  the  furnishings  and  glass?  You  think  not?" 
very  sarcastically. 

"Oh,  you  guarantee?  Now  what  is  your  guaranty 
worth  to  people  drowned  in  one  hundred  feet  of 
water?" 

"No,  we  won't  wait  to  be  taken  off  by  the  next 
packet.  The  river  is  rising,  and  the  sand-bar  might 
be  covered.  We  demand  it, — the  passengers  de 
mand  to  be  set  ashore  in  the  yawl." 


116        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"Well,  then,  we  will  hold  you  and  the  owners 
liable." 

"We  are  not  prisoners.  What's  that?  Responsi 
bility?  humanity? — shelter?  I'll  take  care  of  the 
shelter.  Duciehurst  mansion  is  scarcely  ten  miles 
down  the  river.  I  own  it,  and  the  yawl  could  put 
us  in  it  in  a  trice." 

"Yes, — we  will  risk  it, — we  will  risk  the  wind  and 
the  current.  All  right.  All  right" 

He  had  carried  his  point  against  every  protest 
according  to  his  wont.  As  he  turned,  triumphant 
and  smiling,  to  the  anxious,  disheveled,  drenched 
group,  he  had  all  the  pomp  and  port  of  a  public 
benefactor.  Absorbed  in  himself  and  the  prospect 
of  his  speedy  extrication  from  this  uncomfortable 
and  dangerous  plight  he  was  utterly  unaware  that 
his  wife  and  only  child  had  had  urgent  need  of  the 
succor  that  they  had  received  from  a  stranger. 

Paula  gazed  enlightened  at  Floyd-Rosney  as  if 
she  saw  him  for  the  first  time  as  he  was.  The  scales 
had  fallen  from  her  eyes.  His  glance  met  hers. 
He  had  no  sense  of  gratulation  that  she  and  the  boy 
were  safe.  He  had  not  known  they  had  encountered 
special  danger.  He  thought  they  only  shared  the 
general  menace  which  it  was  his  privilege  to  render 
less,  to  annul.  He  objected  to  her  pose  with  the  boy 
in  her  arms.  He  deemed  it  inelegant, — as  little  Ned 
was  much  too  stalwart  for  the  artistic  presentment 
of  the  babe  in  the  bosom  of  graceful  maternity, — 
and  the  backward  cant  of  her  figure  thus  extremely 
plebeian.  It  was  not  this  personal  disapproval, 
however,  that  informed  the  coldness  in  his  eyes. 
The  incident  of  the  ridicule  to  which  she  had  sub 
jected  him  among  these  passengers  still  rankled  in 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        117 

every  pulsation.  He  was  glad  of  the  opportunity 
to  confer  benefits  upon  them,  from  his  high  position 
to  rescue  them  from  imminent  danger,  to  be  rein 
stated,  in  their  opinion,  as  a  man  of  paramount  in 
fluence  and  value, — a  fleer  at  him  should  be  esteemed, 
indeed,  a  self-confessed  folly. 

"I  dare  say  the  old  house  leaks  like  a  riddle, — I 
know  it  is  in  ruins,"  he  said,  in  a  large,  off-hand, 
liberal  manner,  "but  it  is  on  solid  ground,  at  any 
rate,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  entertain  this  worship 
ful  company  there  as  best  I  may  till  we  can  get  a 
boat  that  can  navigate  water  and  not  tow-heads.  I 
know  we  can't  spend  the  night  here.  In  fact,  the 
Captain  proposes  to  set  us  ashore  as  soon  as  he  is 
convinced  that  no  boat  is  coming  down, — but,  of 
course,  every  craft  on  the  river  is  tied  up  in  such 
weather  as  this.  If  he  will  set  us  ashore  at  Ducie- 
hurst  with  some  bedding  and  provisions  I  will  ask 


no  more." 


There  was  a  murmur  of  acquiescence  and  ac 
ceptance, — then  a  general  acclaim  of  thanks,  for  the 
wind  was  still  so  high  that  communication  was  con 
ducted  almost  in  shouts.  Nevertheless,  Ducie  heard 
very  distinctly  when  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  turned 
toward  him  a  pale,  pained,  troubled  face. 

"You  will  come,  too?  You  will  have  no  scruple 
about — about  the  ownership?"  she  faltered. 

Adrian  Ducie  laughed  satirically.  "Not  the  least 
scruple  in  the  world.  I  have  the  best  right  there 
from  every  point  of  view, — even  his  own! — for  if 
my  brother  is  only  a  lessee,  and  not  the  rightful 
owner,  as  he  contended  this  morning,  Randal  is  in 
possession  and  my  welcome  is  assured  in  a  house 
of  which  he  is  the  host." 


118        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"I  only  thought — I  wanted  to  say " 

The  big  child  was  very  big  in  her  arms,  and  had 
had  his  share  of  the  suffering  from  the  general  tu 
mult  and  excitement.  He  was  fractious,  hungry,  and 
sleepy,  although  he  could  not  sleep.  But  he  bur 
rowed  with  his  head  in  her  neck  and  tried  to  put 
his  cheek  before  her  lips  that  she  might  talk  to  no 
one  but  him,  and  began  to  cry,  although  he  forgot 
his  grievance  midway  and  attempted  to  get  down 
on  his  own  stout  legs. 

"I  wanted  to  say, — you  have  been  so  good  to  me 
and  the  baby, — don't  Ned,  be  quiet,  my  pet, — that  I 
could  not  bear  for  you  to  remain  in  danger  or  dis 
comfort  on  the  boat  because  of  any  sensitiveness 
about  our  presence  at  Duciehurst" 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  he  responded  cavalierly. 
"I  am  not  subject  to  any  sensitiveness  about  Du 
ciehurst.  I  shall  have  the  very  best  that  Duciehurst 
can  afford  and  be  beholden  to  nobody  for  it." 


CHAPTER    VII 

A  DIMINUTION  in  the  floods  of  rain  began  to  be 
perceptible,  and  the  extreme  violence  of  the  wind 
was  abated.  Now  and  then  a  gust  in  paroxysmal 
fury  came  screaming  down  the  river,  battering  tu- 
multuously  at  the  shattered  doors  and  windows  of 
the  wreck,  setting  all  the  loose  wires  and  chains  to 
clattering,  and  showing  its  breadth  and  muscle  by 
tearing  up  some  riverside  tree  and  carrying  it  whirl 
ing  as  lightly  as  a  straw  through  the  air  above  the 
tortured  and  lashed  currents  of  the  stream.  The 
clouds,  dark  and  slate-tinted,  showed  occasionally 
a  white  transparent  scud  driving  swiftly  athwart 
their  expanse,  which  gave  obvious  token  of  the  vel 
ocity  of  the  wind,  for,  although  the  hurricane  was 
spent,  the  menace  of  the  stormy  weather  and  the 
turbulent,  maddened  waters  was  still  to  be  reckoned 
with.  It  was  scarcely  beyond  noon-day,  yet  the  as 
pect  of  the  world  was  of  a  lowering  and  tempestu 
ous  darkness.  The  alacrity  of  the  Captain  in  get 
ting  them  afloat  argued  that  he  now  accorded  more 
approval  to  the  plan  than  when  it  was  first  sug 
gested,  and  that,  although  he  would  not  have  as 
sumed  the  responsibility  of  the  removal  of  the  pas 
sengers  at  such  imminent  risk,  he  was  glad  to  for 
ward  it  when  it  was  of  their  own  volition,  indeed 
insistence.  A  fact  that  his  long  riparian  knowledge 
revealed  to  him  was  not  immediately  apparent  to 

119 


120        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

the  passengers  until  the  yawl  was  about  to  be 
launched, — the  sand-bar  was  in  process  of  sub 
mergence.  The  rise  of  the  river  was  unprecedented 
in  so  short  an  interval,  due  to  the  fall  of  the  vast 
volume  of  rain.  During  the  last  ten  minutes  the 
Captain  began  to  realize  that  it  was  beyond  the 
power  of  prophecy  to  judge  what  proportion  of  the 
tow-head  would  be  above  water  within  the  hour.  It 
was  not  difficult  to  launch  the  yawl  from  the  twisted 
timbers  of  the  deck.  It  swung  clear  and  slipped 
down  with  a  smart  impact,  rocking  on  the  tumultu 
ous  current  as  if  there  were  twenty  feet  of  water 
beneath  it. 

"Where  the  yawl  is  now  was  bare  sand  ten  min 
utes  ago,"  commented  Floyd-Rosney. 

This  fact  imparted  courage  to  the  weak-hearted 
who  had  held  back  at  the  sight  of  the  weltering 
expanse  of  the  great  river,  the  sound  of  the  blasts 
of  the  strong  wind,  and  the  overwhelming  down 
pour  of  the  rain.  They  were  disposed  now  to  de 
pend  upon  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney,  who  was  so  masterful 
and  knowing,  and  who  shared  all  their  interest, 
rather  than  the  Captain,  whose  conservative  idea 
seemed  to  be  to  stick  to  the  boat  at  all  hazards, 
and  to  what  might  be  left  of  the  tow-head. 

"This  is  the  season  of  dead  low  water,"  he  ar 
gued.  "This  rain  is  local, — the  rise  of  the  river  is 
only  temporary." 

But  he  had  the  less  influence  with  them,  because 
they  felt  that  he  was  complicated  by  his  duty  to 
the  owners  of  the  boat  and  the  shippers  of  freight, 
and  also  the  traditions  that  forbid  the  Captain's 
abandonment  of  his  deck  till  the  last  moment. 

He  did  not  resent  the  discarding  of  his  opinion, 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

but  was  quite  genial  and  hearty  as  he  stood  on  the 
guards  and  himself  directed  the  men  who  were 
handling  the  yawl. 

"It  may  be  the  best  thing, — if  she  doesn't  cap 
size,"  he  admitted, — "though  I  wouldn't  advise  it." 

Whereupon  the  weak-hearted  again  began  to  de 
mur. 

"Don't  discourage  us,  Captain,"  said  Floyd-Ros- 
ney,  frowning  heavily,  "we  have  no  other  resource." 

"I  shall  use  my  best  judgment,  Mr.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney,"  the  Captain  retorted.  "I  am  not  here  to  en 
courage  you  in  fool-hardy  undertakings.  We  know 
where  we  are  now, — and  we  have  the  yawl  and  the 
other  boats  as  a  last  resource.  The  weather,  too, 
may  clear.  It  can't  rain  and  blow  forever." 

"I  shall  show  my  opinion  by  taking  to  the  boat 
and  carrying  my  family  with  me,"  said  Floyd-Ros- 
ney  loftily.  "Any  one  who  wishes  to  go  with  us  will 
be  very  welcome  at  Duciehurst." 

He  already  had  on  his  overcoat  and  hat  and  the 
other  passengers,  with  their  suit-cases  or  such  other 
possessions  as  could  be  handed  out  of  their  almost 
inverted  staterooms  by  the  grinning  roustabouts, 
began  to  make  their  precarious  descent  to  the  lower 
deck  on  the  reeking  and  slippery  stair,  all  awry  and 
aslant. 

"Take  care  of  the  Major, — oh,  take  care  of  the 
Major,"  cried  Hildegarde  Dean,  almost  hysterically, 
as  the  old  man  was  lifted  by  his  colored  servant, 
who  had  been  with  him  as  a  "horse-boy"  in  the 
army,  and  who,  though  grizzled,  and  time-worn, 
and  wrinkled,  was  still  brawny  and  active.  In  fact, 
he  had  lived  in  great  ease  and  competence  owing  to 
his  special  fidelity  and  utility  in  the  Major's  infirmi- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

ties,  since  "Me  an'  de  Major  fout  through  de  War." 
In  fact,  if  old  Tobe  might  be  believed,  the  majority 
of  the  deeds  of  valiance  in  that  great  struggle  were 
exploited  by  "Me  an'  de  Major." 

"Sartainly, — sartainly,"  his  big  voice  boomed  out 
on  the  air,  responsive  to  the  caution,  "Me  an'  de 
Major  have  been  through  a  heap  worse  trouble- 
ments  dan  dis  yere." 

And,  indeed,  surely  and  safely  he  went  down  the 
stair,  buffeted  by  the  wind  and  drenched  by  the  rain 
and  the  spray  leaping  from  its  impact  on  the  surface 
of  the  water. 

Hildegarde  herself  descended  as  easily  as  a  fawn 
might  bound  down  a  hill,  to  Colonel  Kenwynton's 
amazement,  accustomed  to  lend  the  ladies  of  his 
day  a  supporting  arm.  She  sprang  upon  the  gunwale 
of  the  yawl  in  so  lightsome  a  poise  that  it  scarcely 
tipped  beneath  her  weight  before  she  was  seated  be 
side  the  old  blind  soldier,  joyous,  reassuring  and 
hopeful. 

"It  is  hard  to  be  in  danger  and  unable  to  help 
others  or  even  to  see  and  judge  of  the  situation,"  he 
said  meekly,  bending  forward  under  the  down-pour, 
his  face  pallid  and  wrinkled,  its  expression  of  grop 
ing  wistfulness  most  appealing. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  assented,  her  voice  sounding 
amidst  the  rain  like  the  song  of  a  bird  from  out  a 
summer  shower.  "But  I  think  all  this  hubbub  is 
for  nothing, — the  sky  is  going  to  clear,  I  believe, 
toward  the  west.  Still,  the  next  packet  can  take  us 
off  at  Duciehurst  as  well  as  from  the  Cherokee  Rose. 
"And,  Major,"  with  a  blithe  rising  inflection,  "I 
can  see  a  veritable  ante-bellum  mansion,  and  you 
can  go  over  it  with  me  and  explain  the  life  of  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

old  times.  You  can  refurnish  it,  Major!  You  can 
tell  me  what  ought  to  stand  here  and  there,  and  what 
sort  of  upholstery  and  curtains  the  'Has-Beens'  used 
to  affect." 

His  old  face  was  suddenly  relumed  with  this 
placid  expectation;  his  brain  was  once  more 
thronged  with  reminiscences.  He  lifted  his  aged 
head  and  gazed  toward  the  clearing  west  and  the 
radiant  past,  both  beginning  to  relent  to  a  gentle 
suffusion  of  restored  peace. 

In  this  transient  illumination  the  great  dun-tinted 
forests  that  lined  the  banks  showed  dimly,  as  well 
as  the  vast  river  swirling  intervenient,  tawny,  murky, 
but  with  sudden  mad  whorls  of  white  foam  where 
the  current  struck  some  obstruction  flung  into  its 
course  by  the  storm.  The  wreck  of  the  Cherokee 
Rose  was  very  melancholy  as  a  spectacle  since, 
but  for  the  hurricane,  she  would  have  been  floated 
in  five  minutes  more  of  the  deluge  of  rain.  The 
yawl  seemed  a  tiny  thing,  painfully  inadequate,  as 
it  rocked  with  a  long  tilt  on  the  swaying  undulations 
of  the  current.  The  preparations  for  departure 
were  going  swiftly  forward;  another  boat  was  in 
process  of  loading  with  material  comforts,  cots,  bed 
ding,  all  under  tarpaulins,  boxes  and  hampers  of 
provisions,  and  the  trunks  and  suit-cases  of  passen 
gers.  Since  escape  was  now  possible  and  at  hand, 
one  or  two  of  the  faint-hearted  began  to  experience 
anew  that  reluctance  to  removal,  that  doubt  of  an 
untried  change  so  common  to  the  moment  of  de 
cision.  "It  is  a  long  way — ten  miles  in  this  wind," 
said  one,  "how  would  it  do  for  a  few  of  us  to  try 
that  swamper's  shack  on  the  bank?  The  yawl  is 
overloaded,  anyhow." 


THE    STORY    OF   BUCIEHURST 

"Now,  I  can  advise  you/'  said  the  Captain  defi 
nitely.  "It  won't  do  at  all  to  trust  river-side  rats. 
You  might  be  robbed  and  murdered  for  your  watch 
or  the  change  in  your  purse.  I  am  not  acquainted 
with  that  swamper, — I  speak  from  precedent.  And 
how  can  you  judge  if  the  shack  is  above  water  now, 
— or  whether  it  has  been  blown  by  the  hurricane 
down  the  river?" 

"Still,  the  yawl  is  overloaded,"  said  Floyd-Ros- 
ney,  with  a  trifle  of  malice.  He  was  bent  on  ex 
ploiting  the  situation  to  his  own  commanding  credit, 
and  the  proposition,  reiterated  anew,  to  withdraw 
for  a  different  course,  nettled  his  troublous  and  sen 
sitive  pride. 

The  next  man  who  stepped  into  the  yawl  was 
the  one  who  had  advanced  this  divergent  theory,  and 
Floyd-Rosney  flashed  a  glance  of  triumph  at  his 
wife,  who  still  stood  with  the  child  in  her  arms  at 
the  warped  rail  of  the  promenade  deck.  She  was 
pale,  anxious,  doubtful,  in  no  frame  of  mind  to  fur 
nish  her  wonted  plaudits,  the  incense  of  wifely  flat 
teries  on  which  his  vanity  lived.  These  others  had 
admired  his  initiative,  had  gladly  adopted  his  plans, 
were  looking  to  him  with  a  unanimity  of  subservi 
ence  that  had  quite  restored  the  tone  of  his  wonted 
arrogance.  He  could  ill  brook  to  see  her  with  that 
discouraged  questioning  in  her  face,  gazing  forth 
over  the  forbidding  gray  water,  letting  first  one,  then 
another  pass  her  to  a  place  in  the  yawl.  She  should 
have  been  the  first  to  board  it, — to  show  her  faith 
by  her  works. 

He  approached  her  with  a  rebuking  question. 

"Why  do  you  lug  that  child  around,  Paula?"  he 
demanded.  "He  will  break  your  back."  He 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        125 

stepped  forward,  as  if  to  lift  the  little  fellow  from 
her  arms,  but  she  precipitately  moved  a  pace  back 
ward.  Paula's  grisly  thoughts  were  of  the  dun 
geon,  the  trap  of  the  warped  stateroom, — whence 
the  boy  was  liberated  by  a  stranger,  while  his  father, 
unthinking  and  unnoting,  was  absorbed  in  his  own 
complacence,  in  his  busy  and  arrogant  pose.  No, — 
she  would  not  let  the  child  go  again,  she  would 
hold  him  in  her  arms  if  his  weight  broke  every 
bone  in  her  body  till  they  were  all  in  safety. 

"I  don't  want  to  risk  that  yawl,"  she  said  queru 
lously.  "I  think  the  Captain  knows  best, — he  has 
had  such  long  experience.  The  yawl  looks  tricky, 
and  the  water  is  fearful.  We  ought  to  take  to  the 
yawl  as  a  last  resort,  when  the  steamer  can't  house 
us.  That  is  always  the  custom.  It  is  only  in  cases 
of  absolute  necessity  that  the  yawl  is  used." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  he  were  more 
surprised  or  incensed,  as  for  a  moment,  with  short 
breaths  and  flashing  eyes,  he  gazed  at  her.  He  was 
of  an  impetuous  temper,  yet  not  beyond  schooling. 
He  had  had  a  lesson,  he  had  felt  the  keen  edge  of 
her  ridicule  this  morning,  and  he  would  not  again 
lay  himself  liable  to  a  public  exhibition. 

"Why,  you  must  be  a  graduated  pilot  to  know  so 
much  about  the  river,"  he  cried  with  a  rallying 
laugh.  "The  kid  and  I  are  going  in  the  yawl  at  all 
events.  Unloose  your  hold,"  he  added  in  a  furious 
undertone.  "He  is  mine, — he  is  mine, — not  yours." 

He  had  laid  his  hand  on  both  hers  as  they  clasped 
the  child.  Floyd-Rosney  was  still  smiling  and  ap 
parently  gracious  and  good-humored,  which  might 
have  seemed  much,  thus  publicly  withstood  in  this 
moment  of  excitement  and  stress.  He  was  resolved 


126        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

that  he  would  not  lower  his  pride  by  an  open  and 
obvious  struggle.  He  did  not  consider  her  pride. 
He  forced  her  fingers  apart,  invisibly  under  the 
folds  of  the  child's  cloak,  by  an  old  school-boy  trick 
of  suddenly  striking  the  wrist  a  sharp  blow.  The 
muscles  must  needs  relax  in  the  pain,  the  hold  give 
way,  and,  as  the  boy  was  about  to  slip  from  her 
clasp,  his  father  called  for  the  nurse,  placed  the  child 
in  the  arms  of  the  old  servant  and  consigned  them 
both  to  a  stout  roustabout  who  had  them  in  the  yawl 
in  a  trice.  Without  a  word  of  apology,  of  justifi 
cation,  of  soothing  remonstrance,  Floyd-Rosney 
turned  away  from  his  wife  with  brisk  cheerfulness 
and  once  more  addressed  himself  to  the  matter  in 
hand. 

Paula  felt  that  if  this  had  been  her  husband  of 
yesterday  it  would  have  broken  her  heart.  But  that 
identity  was  dead, — suddenly  dead.  Indeed,  had  he 
ever  lived?  She  wondered  that  the  revulsion  of 
feeling  did  not  overpower  her.  But  she  was  con 
sciously  cool,  composed,  steady,  without  the  quiver 
of  a  muscle.  She  made  no  excuses  to  herself  in 
her  introspection  for  her  husband, — gave  him  no 
benefit  of  doubt, — urged  no  palliation  of  his  brutal 
ity.  Yet  these  were  not  far  to  seek.  The  hurri 
cane  had  come  at  a  crisis  in  his  mental  experience. 
He  had  been  publicly  held  up  to  ridicule,  even  to 
reprehension,  by  his  own  subservient  wife.  He  had 
been  released  from  this  pitiable  attitude  by  some 
unimaginable  impulse  in  the  brother  of  the  man 
whom  she  had  jilted  at  the  last  moment,  and  thus 
confused,  absorbed,  scarcely  himself  at  the  instant 
of  the  stupendous  crash,  he  had  lost  sight  of  the 
fact,  if  he  had  earlier  noticed,  that  the  child  was 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        127 

not  with  her,  and  in  the  saloon, — his  latest  glimpse 
of  the  boy  was  in  her  arms.  It  was  natural  that 
he  did  not  witness  the  rescue  by  Ducie,  for  he  was 
planning  an  escape  for  them  all,  and,  surely,  it  was 
her  place  to  defer  to  his  views,  his  seniority,  his  ex 
perience,  and  be  guided  by  him  rather  than  take  the 
helm  herself.  Naught  of  this  had  weight  with  her. 
She  only  remembered  the  provocation  that  had  elic 
ited  her  fleer,  his  furious  whisper  of  objection,  his 
censorious  interference,  the  humiliation  so  bitter 
that  she  could  not  lift  her  head  while  his  rebukes 
hissed  in  her  ears  before  them  all.  Then,  in  that 
terrible  moment  of  calamity,  he  had  not  thought  of 
her,  of  their  son, — had  not  rushed  to  gather  them 
in  his  arms,  that  they  might,  at  least,  die  together. 
Doubtless,  he  would  have  said  they  could  die  to 
gether  in  due  time, — it  was  not  yet  the  moment  for 
dying — and  he  was  preparing  to  postpone  that  final 
ity  as  far  as  might  be. 

And  thus  it  was  Adrian  Ducie, — Randal's  brother 
— who  had  saved  the  child,  shut  up  in  the  overturned 
stateroom  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  She  knew,  too,  how 
lightly  Floyd-Rosney  would  treat  this  if  it  were 
brought  to  his  knowledge, — he  would  say  that  not 
a  drop  of  water  had  touched  the  child;  he  had  sus 
tained  not  an  instant's  hurt.  That  he  and  his  nurse 
had  for  a  few  moments  been  unable  to  turn  the  bolt 
of  a  door  was  only  a  slight  inconvenience,  as  the 
result  of  a  hurricane.  One  of  the  passengers  had 
a  badly  bruised  arm,  on  which  a  chandelier  had 
fallen,  another  was  somewhat  severely  cut  about 
the  head  and  face  by  the  shattering  of  a  mirror. 
The  baby  was  particularly  safe  in  the  restricted  lit- 


128       THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

tie  stateroom,  where  naught  more  deadly  fell  upon 
him  than  a  pillow. 

But  it  mattered  not  now  to  her  what  Floyd-Ros- 
ney  said  or  thought.  All  dwindled  into  insignifi 
cance,  was  nullified  by  the  fact  of  the  covert  blow, 
on  the  sly, — how  she  scorned  him — that  these  men 
might  not  see  and  despise  him  for  it! — dealt  in  the 
folds  of  the  child's  cloak,  their  child,  his  and  hers! 
She  wondered  that  he  dared,  knowing  how  she  had 
surrendered  him  to  scorn  in  their  earlier  difference. 
Perhaps  he  knew,  and,  indeed,  she  was  sure,  instinc 
tively,  that  none  would  believe;  the  blow  would  be 
considered  unintentional,  the  incident  of  the  strug 
gle  to  wrest  the  child  from  her  grasp. 

If  a  moment  ago  she  had  seemed  pale,  haggard, 
a  flaccid  presentment  of  an  ordinary  type,  that  as 
pect  had  fallen  from  her  like  a  mask.  Her  cheeks 
burned,  and  their  intense  carmine  gave  an  empha 
sis  to  the  luster  and  tint  of  her  redundant  yellow 
hair.  Her  eyes  were  alert,  brilliant,  not  gray,  nor 
brown,  nor  green,  yet  of  a  tint  allied  to  each,  and 
were  of  such  a  clarity  that  one  could  say  such  eyes 
might  well  gaze  unabashed  upon  the  sun.  All  her 
wonted  distinction  of  manner  had  returned  to  her  un 
wittingly,  with  the  resumption  of  her  normal  iden 
tity,  the  reassertion  of  her  courage.  The  necessity 
to  endure  had  made  her  brave,  quick  to  respond  to 
the  exigencies  of  the  moment. 

As  the  child's  voice  came  to  her  through  the  tor 
rents  in  a  plaintive  bleat  of  reluctance  and  terror, 
full  of  the  pain  and  fear  of  parting  from  her,  who 
was  his  little  Providence,  omnipotent,  all-caring,  in 
finitely  loving,  she  nerved  herself  to  call  out  gaily  to 
him  and  wave  her  hand,  and  exhort  him  in  the  home- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        129 

ly  phrase  familiar  to  all  infancy,  "to  be  a  good  boy." 
The  tears  started  to  her  eyes  as  she  noted  his  sud 
den  relapse  into  silence,  and  saw,  through  the  rain, 
how  humbly  and  acquiescently  he  lent  himself  to  the 
bestowal  of  his  small  anatomy  in  the  corner  deemed 
fit  by  the  imperious  paternal  authority. 

Little  Marjorie  Ashley  had  been  almost  stunned 
into  silence  for  a  time.  The  terrors  of  the  experi 
ence,  the  exacerbation  of  nerves  in  the  tempestuous 
turmoils,  the  suspense,  the  agitation,  the  fear  of  in 
jury  or  even  of  death,  all  seemed  nullified  now  in 
the  expectation  of  rescue  and  under  the  protective 
wing  of  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney.  Her  father,  going 
within  to  the  office  for  some  valuable  which  he  had 
deposited  in  the  safe  of  the  boat,  had  charged  Mar 
jorie  to  stand  beside  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  till  his  re 
turn.  The  little  girl  utilized  the  interval  more  ac 
ceptably  to  that  lady  than  one  might  have  deemed 
possible,  by  her  extravagant  praises  of  baby  Ned 
and  her  appreciative  repetition  of  his  bright  sayings. 

Catching  sight  of  him  as  he  looked  up  from  the 
yawl,  she  called  out  in  affected  farewell, — uSo  long, 
partner!" — her  high,  reedy  voice  penetrating  the 
down-pour  with  its  keenly  sweet  and  piercing  qual 
ity,  and  she  fell  back  against  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney, 
laughing  with  delight  and  gratified  mirth,  when  the 
response  came  shrill,  and  infantile,  and  jubilant, — 
"So  long,  Mar'jee!  So  long,  Mar'jeel" 

Floyd-Rosney's  look  of  inquiry  as  the  business  of 
embarkation  brought  him  near  his  wife  was  so 
marked  as  to  be  almost  articulate.  He  could  not 
understand  her  changed  aspect.  He  was  prepared 
for  tears,  for  reproaches,  even  for  an  outbreak  of 
indecorous  rage.  He  had  intended  that,  in  any 


130        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

event,  she  should  feel  his  displeasure,  his  discipline, 
and  it  was  of  a  nature  under  which  she  must  needs 
writhe.  Anything  that  affected  the  boy,  however 
slightly,  had  power  to  move  her  out  of  all  propor 
tion  to  its  importance.  In  this  signal  instance  of 
danger,  almost  of  despair,  her  conduct,  her  acces 
sion  of  beauty,  seemed  inexplicable.  Her  manner  of 
quiet  composure,  her  look,  the  stately  elegance  so 
in  accord  with  her  slender  figure,  her  attitude,  her 
gait,  peculiarly  characteristic  of  her  personality, 
seemed  singularly  marked  now,  and  out  of  keeping 
with  the  situation,  challenging  comment. 

"Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  has  got  the  nerve!"  said  the 
Captain  admiringly.  "She  is  fit  for  the  bridge  of  a 
man-of-war.  Are  you  going  to  stand  by  the  deck 
till  the  last  passenger  has  taken  to  the  boats, 
madam?" 

For  Floyd-Rosney,  knowing  full  well  that  he  was 
imposing  on  her  no  danger  that  the  others  did  not 
share,  had  made  it  a  point  to  pass  her  by  in  sum 
moning  the  ladies  to  descend  to  the  yawl.  In  fact, 
a  number  of  men  were  seated  on  the  thwarts  by  his 
orders.  He  had  only  intended  to  impress  her  with 
a  sense  of  his  indifference,  his  displeasure,  his  power. 
But  he  had  given  her  the  opportunity  to  assert  her 
independence,  and,  incidentally,  to  levy  tribute  on 
the  admiration  of  the  whole  boat's  company. 

"Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  doesn't  care  for  a  living 
thing  but  little  Ned,"  cried  the  voluble  Marjorie. 
"If  little  Ned  is  safe  she  had  just  as  lief  the  rest 
of  us  would  go  to  the  bottom  as  not." 

Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  took  his  wife  by  the  elbow. 
"Come  on,"  he  said,  "why  are  you  lagging  back 
here, — afraid  to  get  in  the  yawl?"  Then  he  added 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST         131 

in  a  lower  voice,  "Can  you  do  nothing  to  stop  that 
miserable  girl's  chatter  ?" 

But  the  voice,  even  hissing  between  his  set  teeth, 
was  not  so  low  that  Marjorie,  being  near,  did  not 
hear  it.  At  all  events,  she  had  had  no  schooling 
in  self-repression,  in  the  humiliation  of  a  politic 
deference.  She  flamed  out  with  all  the  normal  in 
stincts  of  self-asserting  and  wounded  pride. 

"No,  there  isn't  any  way  to  stop  my  chatter," — 
she  exclaimed  hotly,  "for  I  have  as  good  a  right  to 
talk  as  you.  I  am  not  a  'miserable  girl.'  But  I 
don't  care  what  you  say.  I  don't  train  with  your 
gang,  anyhow!" 

"Why,  Marjorie,"  cried  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  and 
her  husband  had  a  moment's  relief  in  the  expectation 
that  the  indignity  offered  to  him  would  be  sum 
marily,  yet  tactfully  rebuked.  But  his  wife  only  said, 
"What  slang!  Is  that  the  kind  of  thing  you  learn 
at  Madame  Gerault's?" 

She  passed  her  arm  about  the  girl's  shoulder,  but 
Marjorie  had  as  yet  learned  ho  self-control  at 
Madame  Gerault's  or  elsewhere,  and  burst  into 
stormy  tears.  Even  after  she  was  seated  in  the 
yawl,  beside  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  she  wept  persist 
ently,  and  sobbed  aloud.  The  grief-stricken  specta 
cle  greatly  affected  little  Ned  Floyd-Rosney  at  the 
further  end  of  the  yawl.  After  staring,  in  grave 
and  flushed  dismay  and  amaze  for  a  few  moments, 
he  made  one  or  two  spasmodic  efforts  to  cheer  his 
boon  companion  from  the  distance.  Then  he  suc 
cumbed  to  sympathy  and  wept  dolorously  and  loudly 
in  concert. 

Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  made  no  effort  to  reach  him 
by  word  or  look,  Her  husband,  whose  nerves  a 


132        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

crying  child  affected  with  such  intense  aggravation 
that  he  was  seldom  subjected  to  this  annoyance,  was 
compelled  to  set  his  teeth  in  helpless  discomfort, 
and  endure  the  affliction,  intensified  by  the  difference 
in  age,  and  the  variance  in  pitch  and  vocal  volume  of 
the  two  lachrymose  performers. 

Thus  freighted,  the  yawl  pushed  off,  at  length, 
into  the  steely  rain,  the  white  foam,  and  the  surging, 
tawny  currents  of  the  river.  All  looked  back  at 
the  sand-bar,  doubtless,  with  some  apprehensive  re 
gret.  The  sight  of  the  stanch  Captain  on  the  deck 
waving  his  farewell  was  not  calculated  to  dispel 
anxiety.  The  sand-bar,  too,  was  big, — on  board 
they  had  scarcely  realized  its  extent.  In  compari 
son  with  the  yawl  it  seemed  very  solid,  continental. 
They  sheered  off  cautiously  from  it  lest  the  yawl, 
too,  go  aground  on  some  submerged  and  unsus 
pected  process  of  land  building.  It  was  obviously 
safer  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  despite  the  menacing 
aspect  of  the  swift  tumultuous  current,  lashed  into 
foaming  swirls  by  the  blast.  The  tremendous  im 
petus  of  the  flow  was  demonstrated  by  the  speed  of 
the  yawl;  in  one  moment  the  steamer  had  disap 
peared,  its  great  white  bulk,  lifted  high  on  the  sand 
bar,  showed  like  a  mirage  through  a  sudden  parting 
of  the  dashing  torrents,  then  fell  astern  to  be 
glimpsed  no  more.  When  the  yawl  began  to  run 
precipitately  toward  the  bank  there  was  a  general 
outcry  of  fear,  but  the  mate,  who  was  navigating 
the  little  craft,  explained  that  it  must  needs  go  with 
the  sweep  of  the  current,  which  now  hugged  the 
shore,  for  the  strength  of  his  crew  could  not  make 
headway  against  it,  heavily  laden  as  the  yawl  was. 

From  this  proximity  to  the  land  the  voyagers 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST        133 

could  mark  the  evidences  of  the  fury  of  the  hurri 
cane.  Its  track  through  the  woods  was  near  a  hun 
dred  yards  wide,  in  almost  a  perfectly  straight  line, 
and  in  this  avenue  the  trees  were  felled,  the  ground 
cleared,  the  levee  laid  flat.  It  was  impossible  to 
say  what  dwellings  or  farm-buildings  shared  the 
disaster,  for  no  vestige  was  left  to  tell  the  tale. 
As  the  yawl  fared  onward  it  encountered  one  of 
the  great  monarchs  of  the  woods,  tossed  into  the 
river  by  the  gusts  that  had  uprooted  it  and  now 
borne  swiftly  on  by  the  combined  force  of  the  wind 
and  the  current  It  required  all  the  strength  of  the 
oarsmen  to  hold  back  and  give  precedence  to  this  gi 
gantic  flotsam,  lest  some  uncovenanted  swirl  of  the 
waters  fling  it  with  all  its  towering  intricacies  of 
boughs  upon  the  boat,  and,  hopelessly  entangling  it, 
thrash  out  the  life  of  every  creature  on  board.  For 
the  wind  was  rife  in  its  branches  and  thus  contorted 
its  course.  It  tossed  them  high;  whistled  and 
screamed  madly  among  them,  and  the  yawl,  follow 
ing  reluctantly  in  the  rear,  was  witness  of  all  the 
fantastic  freaks  of  these  wild  gambols  of  the  gusts. 
This  unlucky  blockade  of  their  course  gave  rise  to 
some  discussion  between  the  mate  and  the  passen 
gers,  and  Floyd-Rosney  would  fain  seek  to  pass  the 
obstruction  by  a  spurt  of  rowing  to  one  side. 

"I  am  not  well  acquainted  with  the  current  just 
along  here,"  said  the  mate,  "but  if  it  should  make 
in  toward  the  land  with  us  between  it  and  the  bank 
we  would  be  flailed  alive  and  drowned  besides." 

There  was  a  general  consensus  of  opinion  with 
the  mate's  position,  and  one  of  the  elderly  ladies 
openly  remonstrated  against  Floyd-Rosney's  risky 
proposition,  but  his  wife  said  never  a  word. 


134        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

Suddenly  the  mate  called  out  in  a  startled  voice: 
"Back  oars, — back, — back,"  and  every  roustabout 
put  his  full  force  against  the  current,  but  their  ut 
most  strength  only  sufficed  to  retard  the  progress  of 
the  boat.  The  tree  had  been  struck  by  a  flaw  of 
wind  which  almost  turned  it  over  on  the  surface  of 
the  water,  and  then  went  skirling  and  eddying  down 
the  river.  The  whirling  foliage  gave  an  effect  as  of 
a  flash  of  iridescent  light  through  the  sad-hued  land 
scape;  the  leaves  all  green  and  yellow,  as  in  a  blend 
of  some  gorgeous  emblazonry,  showed  now  against 
the  white  foam  and  now  against  the  slate-tinted  sky. 
The  myriad  wild  waves,  surging  to  and  fro  in  the 
commotion,  leaped  in  long,  elastic  bounds,  and  shook 
their  tawny  manes.  In  the  tumultuous  undulations 
of  the  waters  it  required  all  the  skill  of  the  experi 
enced  boat-hands  to  keep  the  yawl  afloat. 

"Give  it  up,"  said  Floyd-Rosney,  at  length.  "We 
must  go  back  to  the  Cherokee  Rose." 

"Impossible, — against  the  current  with  this  load," 
said  the  mate. 

"We  can  try,  at  least,"  urged  Floyd-Rosney.  "If 
we  don't  turn  back  the  current  will  carry  us  down 
into  the  midst  of  that  cursed  tree  in  case  we  have 
another  gust." 

"Isn't  there  a  bayou  about  half  a  mile  further?" 
suggested  Adrian  Ducie.  "Does  the  current  make 
in?" 

"I  am  not  sure  whether  it's  a  creek  or  a  bayou," 
said  the  mate,  "but  the  current  does  make  in  along 
there." 

"As  if  it  matters  a  sou  marque  whether  it  is  a 
creek  or  a  bayou,"  fleered  Floyd-Rosney  contemptu 
ously. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        135 

"It  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world,"  re 
torted  Ducie.  "If  it  is  a  creek  it  flows  into  the 
Mississippi, — a  tributary.  If  it  is  a  bayou  the  Mis 
sissippi  flows  into  it,  for  it  is  an  outlet.  If  the  cur 
rent  sets  that  way  it  may  carry  the  tree  into  the 
bayou,  provided  it  is  wide  enough,  and,  if  it  is  nar 
row,  the  boughs  may  be  entangled  there." 

It  was  one  of  the  misfortunes  under  which  the 
voyagers  labored  that  these  consultations  of  the 
leaders  must  needs  be  made  in  the  hearing  of  the 
others,  owing  to  the  restricted  space  which  they  oc 
cupied.  Several  had  begun  to  grow  panicky  with 
the  suggestion  that  progress  was  so  environed  with 
danger,  and  yet  that  return  was  impossible.  Per 
haps  the  mate  was  skilled  in  weather-signs  not  al 
together  of  the  atmosphere  when  he  said,  casually, 

"You  seem  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the  river 
hereabouts,  Mr.  Ducie." 

"Not  the  river  itself,  but  I  have  made  a  study  of 
a  plot  of  survey  of  the  Duciehurst  lands.  Bayou 
Benoit  touches  the  northwestern  quarter-section 
just  where  it  leaves  the  river.  We  cannot  be  far 


now." 


And,  indeed,  a  sudden  rift  in  the  sullen  cypress 
woods  on  the  eastern  shore  revealed,  presently,  a 
stream  not  sluggish  as  was  its  wont,  when  one  might 
scarce  have  discerned  the  course  of  the  water, 
whether  an  inlet  or  an  outlet  of  the  river.  Now 
it  was  flowing  with  great  speed  and  volume  obvi 
ously  directly  from  the  Mississippi.  As  the  mate 
had  said,  the  current  hugged  the  shore.  The  oars 
men  made  as  scant  speed  as  might  be  while  the  great 
tree,  in  its  rich  emblazonment  of  green  and  gold, 
went  teetering  fantastically  on  the  force  of  the 


136       THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

river.  Its  course  grew  swifter  and  swifter  with  the 
momentum  of  the  waters,  seeking  liberation,  until, 
all  at  once,  it  became  stationary.  As  Ducie  had 
thought  probable,  its  boughs  had  entangled  them 
selves  with  the  growths  on  one  side  of  the  narrow 
bayou.  It  was  effectually  checked  for  the  nonce, 
although,  at  any  moment,  the  force  of  the  stream 
might  break  off  considerable  fragments  of  the 
branches  and  thus  compass  its  dislodgment. 

"Give  way,  boys,"  cried  the  mate  in  a  stentorian 
voice.  "Give  way."  The  crew  stretched  every  mus 
cle,  and  the  yawl  skimmed  swiftly  past  the  great, 
flaring  obstruction,  swinging  and  swaying  as  if  at 
anchor  in  the  mouth  of  the  bayou.  Now  and  again 
anxious,  frightened  glances  were  cast  astern.  But  a 
pursuit  by  the  woodland  monster  did  not  materialize. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  aspect  of  the  Duciehurst  mansion  gave  no 
token  of  its  ruinous  condition  when  first  it  broke 
upon  the  view.  Its  stately  portico,  the  massive  Cor 
inthian  columns  reaching  to  the  floor  of  the  third 
story  of  the  main  building,  impressively  dominated 
the  scene,  whitely  glittering,  surrounded  by  the 
green  leaves  of  the  magnolia  grandiflora,  ancient 
now,  and  of  great  bulk  and  height.  The  house  was 
duplicated  by  the  reflection  in  water  close  at  hand, 
whether  some  lake  or  merely  a  pool  formed  by  the 
rain,  Paula  could  not  determine.  A  wing  on  either 
side  expressed  the  large  scope  of  its  construction, 
and  from  a  turn  in  the  road,  if  a  grass-grown  track 
could  be  so  called,  came  glimpses,  in  the  rear  of 
the  building,  of  spacious  galleries  both  above  and 
below  stairs,  shut  in  by  Venetian  blinds,  so  much 
affected  in  the  architecture  of  Southern  homes  in 
former  years.  A  forest  of  live  oak,  swamp  maple, 
black  gum  closed  the  view  of  the  background,  and 
cut  off  the  place  from  communication  with  the  cot 
ton  lands  appurtenant  to  it,  but  at  a  very  consider 
able  distance.  For  the  region  immediately  con 
tiguous  to  the  house  had  become  in  the  divagations 
of  the  great  river  peculiarly  liable  to  overflow,  and 
thus  the  forest,  known,  indeed,  as  the  "open 
swamp,'*  continued  uncleared,  because  of  the  pre 
carious  value  of  the  land  for  agricultural  opera- 

137 


138        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

tions.  In  fact,  the  main  levee  that  protected  the 
fields  now  lay  far  in  the  rear  of  the  old  Duciehurst 
mansion.  Doubtless  in  times  of  specially  high 
water  seeping  rills  effected  entrance  at  door  and 
casement  and  ran  along  the  floors  and  rose  against 
the  walls,  and  brought  as  tenants  crayfish  and  frogs, 
water-snakes  and  eels,  and  other  slimy  denizens  of 
the  floods,  who  explored  the  strange  recesses  of  this 
refuge,  and,  perhaps,  made  merry,  thus  translated 
to  the  seat  of  the  scornful. 

Paula  paused  on  the  crest  of  the  old  levee.  It 
had  been  in  its  day  a  redoubtable  embankment,  and 
despite  the  neglect  of  a  half  century,  it  still  served 
in  partial  efficiency,  and  its  trend  could  be  discerned 
far  away.  She  gazed  at  the  place  with  emotions  it 
was  difficult  for  her  to  understand.  She  could  not 
shake  off  the  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  Adrian 
Ducie,  nor  could  she  cease  to  speculate  how  it  must 
affect  him  to  see  his  ancestral  estate  in  the  posses 
sion  of  the  usurper,  for  thus  he  must  consider  her 
husband.  Ducie  had  grown  silent  since  they  had 
disembarked,  and  walked  a  little  apart  from  the 
cluster  of  tramping  refugees.  She  dared  not  look 
at  his  face. 

But  law  is  law,  she  argued  within  herself.  It 
was  not  the  fiat  of  her  husband  or  of  his  predeces 
sors,  but  the  decree  of  the  court  that  had  given  the 
property  to  them.  Nevertheless,  there  was  to  her 
mind  an  inherent  coercive  evidence  of  the  truth  of 
the  tradition  of  the  released  mortgage,  duly  paid 
and  satisfied,  and  she  looked  at  the  old  place  with 
eyes  rebuked  and  deprecatory,  and  not  with  the 
pride  or  interest  of  the  rightful  owner. 

It  was  still  raining  as  the  group  reached  the  pave- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        139 

ment  of  heavy  stone  blocks.  These  had  defied  the 
growths  of  neglect  and  the  wear  of  time,  and  were 
as  they  had  always  been  save  that  one  of  them 
had  scaled  and  held  a  tiny  pool  of  shallow  water, 
which  reflected  the  sky.  Her  husband  walked  be 
side  her,  now  and  again  glancing  inquiringly  at  her. 
Never  before  in  all  their  wedded  life  had  so  long 
a  difference  subsisted  between  them.  For,  even  if 
she  were  not  consciously  at  fault,  Paula  had  always 
hitherto  made  haste  to  assume  the  blame,  and  frame 
the  apology,  for  what  odds  was  it,  in  good  sooth, 
who  granted  the  pardon,  she  was  wont  to  argue, 
so  that  both  were  forgiving  and  forgiven.  Now, 
she  recked  not  of  his  displeasure.  She  seemed,  in 
deed,  unusually  composed,  absorbed,  self-sufficient. 
She  did  not  even  glance  at  him,  yet  how  her  eyes 
were  accustomed  to  wait  upon  him.  She  looked 
about  with  quiet  observation,  with  obvious  interest. 
One  might  suppose,  in  fact,  that  she  did  not  think 
of  him  at  all,  as  she  walked  so  daintily  erect  and 
slender,  with  such  graceful,  sober  dignity  beside  him. 
He  had  acquitted  himself  well  that  day,  he  thought, 
had  certainly  earned  golden  opinions,  but  he  was 
beginning  to  miss  sadly  the  most  adroit  flatterer  of 
all  his  experience,  the  woman  who  loved  him.  As 
together  they  ascended  the  broad  stone  steps  he  sud 
denly  paused,  took  her  hand  in  one  of  his  and  with 
ceremony  led  her  through  the  great  arched  portal, 
from  which  the  massive  doors  had  been  riven  and 
destroyed  long  ago. 

"Welcome  to  your  own  house,  my  wife,"  he  said 
with  his  fine  florid  smile  and  a  manner  replete  with 
his  conscious  importance  and  his  relish  of  it. 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  sound  from  the 


140        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

ghastly  vacancy  glimpsed  within,  a  weird,  shrill 
sound,  full  of  sinister  suggestion.  The  group,  peer 
ing  in  from  behind  them,  thrilled  with  horror,  broke 
into  sudden  frightened  exclamations,  before  its  keen 
repetition  enabled  them  to  realize  that  it  was  only 
the  hooting  of  an  owl,  roused,  doubtless,  from  his 
diurnal  slumbers  by  the  tones  of  the  echoing  voice 
and  the  vibrations  of  the  floor  under  an  unaccus 
tomed  tread.  Some  sheepish  laughter  ensued,  at 
themselves  rather  than  at  Floyd-Rosney,  but  at  this 
moment  any  merriment  was  of  invidious  suggestion 
and  he  flushed  deeply. 

"Here,  you  fellow/'  he  hailed  one  of  the  roust 
abouts,  "get  that  owl  out  of  here,  and  any  other 
vermin  you  can  find,"  and  he  tossed  the  darkey  a 
dollar. 

The  roustabout  showed  all  his  teeth,  and  he  had 
a  great  many  of  them,  and  with  a  deprecatory  man 
ner  ran  to  pick  up  the  silver  coin.  He  was  trained 
to  a  degree  of  courtesy,  and  he  fain  would  have 
left  it  where  it  had  fallen  on  the  pavement  until 
he  had  executed  the  commission.  But  he  knew  of 
old  his  companions  of  the  lower  deck,  now  busied 
in  bringing  up  the  luggage  of  the  party.  There 
fore,  he  pocketed  the  gratuity  before  he  went  briskly 
and  cheerfully  down  the  long  hall  to  one  of  the  inner 
apartments  whence  proceeded  the  sound  of  ill- 
omen. 

While  they  were  still  making  their  way  into  the 
main  hall  they  heard  a  great  commotion  of  hootings 
and  halloos,  and  all  at  once  a  tremendous  crash  of 
glass.  It  is  a  sound  of  destruction  that  rouses  all 
the  proprietor  within  a  man. 

"Great  heavens,"  cried  Floyd-Rosney,  "is  the  fool 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

driving  the  creature  through  the  window  without 
lifting  the  sash,  little  glass  as  there  is  left  here." 

It  seemed  that  this  was  the  case,  for  a  large 
white  owl,  blinded  by  the  light  of  day,  floundering 
and  fluttering,  went  winging  its  way  clumsily 
scarcely  six  feet  from  the  ground  through  the  rain, 
still  falling  without,  and  after  several  drooping 
efforts  contrived  gropingly  to  perch  himself  on  a 
broken  stone  vase  on  the  terrace,  whence  the  other 
roustabouts  presently  dislodged  him,  and  with  gay 
cries  and  great  unanimity  of  spirit,  proceeded  to  dis 
patch  him,  hooting  and  squawking  in  painful  sur 
prise  and  protesting  to  the  last. 

Paula  had  caught  little  Ned  within  the  doorway 
to  spare  his  innocence  and  infancy  the  cruel  spec 
tacle.  And  suddenly  here  was  the  roustabout  who 
had  been  sent  into  the  recesses  of  the  house,  com 
ing  out  again  with  a  strange  blank  face,  and  a  pecu 
liar,  hurried,  dogged  manner. 

"Did  you  find  any  more  owls?  And  why  did  you 
break  the  glass  to  get  him  out?"  Floyd-Rodney 
asked,  sternly. 

uNaw,  sir,"  the  man  answered  at  random,  but 
loweringly.  He  bent  his  head  while  he  swiftly 
threaded  his  way  through  the  group  as  if  he  were 
accustomed  to  force  his  progress  with  horns.  He 
was  in  evident  haste;  he  stepped  deftly  down  the 
flight  to  the  pavement  and,  turning  aside  on  the 
weed-grown  turf,  reached  the  shrubbery  and  was  lost 
to  view  among  the  dripping  evergreen  foliage. 

As  it  is  the  accepted  fad  to  admire  old  houses 
rather  than  the  new,  a  gentleman  of  the  party  who 
made  a  point  of  being  up-to-date  began  to  com 
ment  on  the  spacious  proportions  of  the  hall,  and 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

the  really  stately  curves  of  the  staircase  as  it  came 
sweeping  down  from  a  lofty  entresol.  "It  looks  as 
if  it  might  be  a  spiral  above  the  second  story,  isn't 
that  an  unusual  feature,  or  is  it  merely  the  attic 
flight?"  he  interrogated  space. 

For  Floyd-Rosney,  all  the  host,  was  looking  into 
the  adjoining  rooms  and  giving  orders  for  the  light 
ing  of  fires  wherever  a  chimney  seemed  practicable. 

"Listen  how  the  old  rattle-trap  is  leaking,"  said 
one  of  the  elderly  ladies,  ungratefully. 

Paula  made  no  comment.  She  was  hearing  the 
melancholy  drip,  drip,  drip  of  the  rain  through  the 
ceilings  of  the  upper  stories.  As  the  drops  multiplied 
in  number  and  increased  in  volume  they  sounded  to 
her  like  foot-falls,  now  rapid,  now  slow,  circum 
spect  and  weighty;  sometimes  there  was  a  frenzied 
rush  as  in  a  wild  catastrophe,  and  again  a  light  trip 
ping  in  a  sort  of  elastic  tempo,  as  of  the  vibrations 
of  some  gay  dance  of  olde.  The  echoes, — oh,  the 
echoes, — she  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands  for  a 
moment,  lest  she  should  see  the  echoes  materialized, 
that  were  coming  down  the  stairs,  evoked  from  the 
silence,  the  solitude,  the  oblivion  of  the  ruined  man 
sion.  Neglected  here  so  long,  who  would  have 
recked  if  the  old  memories  had  taken  wonted  form 
— who  would  have  seen,  save  the  moonbeam,  itself 
wan  and  vagrant,  or  the  wind  of  kindred  elusive- 
ness,  going  and  coming  as  it  listed. 

Yet  there  had  been  other  and  more  substantial 
tenants.  "The  damned  rascals  have  pulled  up  nearly 
every  hearth  in  the  house,"  Floyd-Rosney  was  say 
ing,  as  he  came  forging  back  through  the  rooms  on 
the  right.  Then  once  more  among  the  ladies  he 
moderated  his  diction.  "Destroying  the  hearths, 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        143 

searching  for  the  hidden  treasure  of  Duciehurst — 
idiotic  folly!  River  pirates,  shanty-boaters,  tramps, 
gipsies,  and  such  like  vagrants,  I  suppose. " 

Paula,  seated  on  one  of  the  steps  of  the  stair, 
cast  a  furtive  glance  at  Adrian  Ducie,  who  had  fol 
lowed  Floyd-Rosney  from  the  inner  apartments.  His 
face  was  grave,  absorbed,  pondering.  Doubtless  he 
was  thinking  of  the  persistence  of  this  tradition  to 
endure,  unaided,  unfostered  for  forty  years.  It  must 
have  had  certainly  some  foundation  in  fact. 

"Perhaps  the  vagrants  discovered  it  and  carried 
it  off,"  suggested  the  up-to-date  man. 

"Not  in  the  chimney-places,"  fretted  Floyd-Ros 
ney,  "which  makes  it  all  the  more  aggravating.  The 
solid  stone  hearths  are  laid  on  solid  masonry,  each 
is  constructed  in  the  same  way,  and  you  couldn't 
hide  a  hair-pin  in  one  of  them.  Why  did  they  tear 
them  all  up?" 

But  fires  were  finally  started  in  two  of  the  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor  where  the  hearths  were  found 
intact.  They  were  comparatively  dry,  barring  an 
occasional  dash  of  the  rain  through  the  broken 
glass  of  one  of  the  windows,  the  ceilings  being  pro 
tected  from  leakage  by  the  floor  of  the  upper  story. 
Floyd-Rosney  began  to  feel  that  this  was  sufficient 
accommodation  for  the  party  under  the  peculiar 
difficulties  that  beset  them.  The  scarcity  of  wood 
rendered  the  impairment  of  the  fire-places  elsewhere 
of  less  moment.  The  sojourners  were  fain  to  fol 
low  the  example  of  the  lawless  intruders  hitherto, 
who  tore  up  the  flooring  of  the  rear  verandas,  the 
sills  of  the  windows,  the  Venetian  blinds  for  fuel. 
This  vandalism,  however,  in  the  present  instance, 
was  limited,  for  its  exercise  required  muscle,  and 


144       THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

this  was  not  superabundant.  True,  the  Captain's 
forethought  had  furnished  them  with  an  axe,  and 
also  a  cook,  in  the  person  of  one  of  the  table  waiters, 
understood  to  be  gifted  in  both  walks  of  life.  There 
(  was  present,  too,  the  Major's  negro  servant,  who, 
although  sixty  years  of  age,  was  still  stalwart,  active 
and  of  unusual  size.  But  neither  of  these  worthies 
had  hired  out  to  cut  wood. 

The  crisis  was  acute.  Floyd-Rosney  offered 
handsome  financial  inducements  in  vain  and  then 
sought  such  urgency  as  lay  in  miscellaneous  swear 
ing.  His  language  was  as  lurid  as  any  flames  that 
had  ever  flared  up  the  great  chimney,  but  ineffective. 
The  group  stood  in  a  large  apartment  in  the  rear, 
apparently  a  kitchen,  of  which  nearly  half  the  floor 
was  already  gone,  exhaled  in  smoke  up  this  massive 
chimney.  It  occupied  nearly  one  side  of  the  room, 
and  still  a  crane  hung  within  its  recesses  and  hooks 
for  pots.  There  was  also  a  brick  oven,  very  quaint, 
and  other  ancient  appurtenances  of  the  culinary  art, 
hardly  understood  by  either  of  the  modern  claim 
ants  of  ownership,  but  of  special  interest  to  the  up- 
to-date  man  who  had  followed  them  out  to  admire 
the  things  of  yore,  so  fashionable  anew. 

"Naw,  sir,"  said  the  Major's  retainer.  "I  can't 
cut  wood.  I  ain't  done  no  work  since  me  an'  de 
Major  fought  de  war,  'cept  jes'  tend  on  him.  Naw, 
sir,  I  ain't  cut  no  wood  since  I  built  de  Major's  las' 
bivouac  fire."  He  was  perfectly  respectful,  but 
calm,  and  firm,  and  impenetrable  to  argument. 

The  other  darkey,  a  languid  person  with  an  evi 
dent  inclination  to  high  fashion,  perceived  in  the 
demand  an  effort  at  imposition.  With  his  spruce 
white  jacket  and  apron,  he  lounged  in  the  doorway 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        145 

leaning  against  its  frame  in  a  most  negative  atti 
tude.  His  voice  in  objection  took  on  the  plaint  of 
a  high  falsetto.  "The  Cap'n  nuver  mentioned  nare 
word  to  me  'bout  cuttin'  wood.  I'll  sure  cook,  if  I 
have  got  a  fire  to  cook  with." 

"You  black  rascal,  do  you  expect  me  to  build 
your  fire?"  sputtered  Floyd-Rosney. 

"The  Cap'n  nuver  treated  me  right,"  the  pro 
visional"  cook  evaded  the  direct  appeal.  "He  nuver 
tole  me  that  I  was  gwine  to  be  axed  to  cut  wood." 

"How  were  you  going  to  cook  without  a  fire?" 
demanded  Ducie. 

"I  'spected  you  gemmen  had  a  fire  somewhere." 

"In  my  coat-pocket?"  asked  Floyd-Rosney. 

The  waiter  would  not  essay  the  retort  direct.  He, 
too,  was  perfectly  polite.  "I  ain't  gwine  to  cut 
wood,"  he  murmured  plaintively. 

"I  wish  we  had  kept  one  of  those  roustabouts  to 
cut  wood  instead  of  letting  them  all  go  with  the 
yawl  back  to  the  Cherokee  Rose/'  said  Floyd-Ros 
ney,  in  great  annoyance.  "They  are  worth  a  hun 
dred  of  these  saloon  darkies." 

"Don't  name  me  'mongst  dat  triflin'  gang,  Mr. 
Floyd-Rosiaey,"  the  Major's  retainer  said,  in  dig 
nified  remonstrance.  "But  I  jes'  come  along  to 
wait  on  de  Major,  an'  cuttin'  wood  is  a  business  I 
ain't  in  no  wise  used  to.  Naw,  sir." 

"I  never  was  expectin'  to  cut  wood,"  plained  the 
high  falsetto  of  the  saloon  darkey. 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Ducie.  "If  this  keeps  up 
I'll  split  some  fool's  head  open." 

He  threw  off  his  coat,  seized  the  axe,  heaved 
it  up  and  struck  a  blow  that  splintered  a  plank  in 
the  middle,  Floyd-Rosney,  his  coat  also  on  the 


146        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

floor,  inserted  the  blade  of  a  hatchet  edgewise  be 
neath  it  and  pried  it  up,  then  began  to  chop  vigor 
ously  while  Ducie  prepared  to  rive  another  plank. 

The  two  negroes  looked  on  with  sulky  indiffer 
ence. 

Suddenly  the  Major's  servant  grinned  genially, 
without  rhyme  or  reason.  "You  two  gemmen  git 
out  of  yere.  Make  yerselfs  skeerce.  You  think 
I'm  gwine  to  stand  yere  an'  let  you  chop  wood.  I 
know  de  quality.  I  have  always  worked  for  de 
quality.  I'm  gwine  to  1'arn  dis  yere  little  coon,  dat 
dunno  nuthin'  but  runnin'  de  river,  how  to  behave 
hisself  before  de  quality.  Take  up  dat  hatchet,  boy, 
an'  mind  yer  manners." 

Floyd-Rosney  surrendered  the  implement  readily 
and  with  all  the  grace  of  good-will,  but  Ducie  con 
tinued  to  deal  the  stanch  old  floor  some  tremendous 
blows  and  at  last  laid  the  axe  down  as  if  he  did  not 
half  care. 

"We  had  best  run  as  few  fires  as  possible,"  Ducie 
commented  as  they  left  the  room,  "change  of  heart 
might  not  last." 

Thus  it  was  that  only  two  of  the  many  spacious 
apartments  were  put  into  commission.  One,  the 
walls  of  which  betokened  in  the  scheme  of  their 
decoration  its  former  uses  as  a  music-room,  was 
filled  with  the  effects  of  the  ladies  of  the  party, 
while  the  gentlemen  were  glad  to  pull  off  their 
shoes  and  exchange  for  dry  hose  and  slippers  be 
fore  the  fire  of  an  old-time  smoking-room,  that 
must  have  been  a  cozy  den  in  its  day.  The  house 
had  long  ago  been  stripped  of  all  portables  in  dec 
oration  as  well  as  furnishing.  A  few  mirrors  still 
hung  on  the  walls,  too  heavy  or  too  fragile  to  be 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        147 

safely  removed,  wantonly  shattered  by  the  vandal 
hands  of  its  occasional  and  itinerant  inmates.  Sev 
eral  of  these  had  been  a  portion  of  the  original  con 
struction,  built  into  the  walls,  and  in  lieu  of  frames 
were  surrounded  by  heavy  mouldings  of  stucco- 
work,  and  this,  too,  had  given  opportunity  to  the 
propensity  of  destruction  rife  throughout  the  piteous 
wreck  of  a  palace.  In  the  smoking-room,  the  haunt 
of  good-fellowship  and  joviality,  Bacchus  seemed 
doubly  drunk,  riding  a  goat  of  three  legs  and  one 
horn,  at  the  summit  of  the  mirror,  and  really,  but 
that  the  figure  in  half  relief  was  too  high  to  be  con 
veniently  reached  all  semblance  of  the  design  might 
have  been  shattered.  Only  here  and  there  was  it 
possible  to  follow  the  rest  of  the  rout  of  satyrs 
and  fauns,  the  tracery  of  bowls  and  beakers  and 
gourds,  and  bunches  of  grapes,  the  redundant  fes 
toons  of  tobacco  leaves  and  replicas  of  many  varie 
ties  of  pipes,  all  environed  with  the  fantastic 
wreathing  of  smoke,  and  the  ingenious  symbolism 
in  which  the  interior  decorator  had  expended  a 
wealth  of  sub-suggestion. 

There  was  only  a  "shake-down"  on  the  floor  for 
the  men,  and  two  or  three  were  already  disposed 
upon  it  at  length,  since  this  was  a  restful  position 
and  there  were  no  chairs  available.  Floyd-Rosney 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  hands  behind 
him,  his  head  a  trifle  bent,  his  eyes  dull  and  rumina 
tive.  He  had  much  of  which  to  think.  Adrian 
Ducie  sat  sidewise  on  the  sill  of  a  window  and 
looked  out  through  the  grimy  panes  at  the  ceaseless 
fall  of  the  rain  amidst  the  glossy  leaves  of  the  mag 
nolias  which  his  grandmother, — or  was  it  his  great- 
grandmother? — had  planted  here  in  the  years  agone. 


148       THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

Was  that  the  site  of  her  flower-garden,  he  wondered, 
seeing  at  a  distance  the  flaunting  of  a  yellow  chrys 
anthemum.  How  odd  it  was  that  he  should  sit  here 
in  his  great-grandfather's  den,  smoking  a  cigar,  prac 
tically  a  stranger,  a  guest,  an  intruder  in  the  home 
of  his  ancestors.  He  and  his  brother,  the  lawful 
heirs  of  all  this  shattered  magnificence,  these  bar 
onial  tracts  of  fertile  lands,  were  constrained  to 
work  sedulously  for  a  bare  living.  He,  himself,  was 
an  exile,  doomed  to  wander  the  earth  over,  with 
never  a  home  of  his  own,  never  a  perch  for  his 
world-weary  wings.  His  brother's  fate  was  to  juggle 
with  all  those  vicissitudes  that  curse  the  man  who 
strives  to  wrest  a  subsistence  from  the  soil,  to  pay 
a  price  of  purchase  for  the  rich  products  of  the  land 
which  his  forbears  had  owned  since  the  extinction 
of  the  tribal  titles  of  the  Indians.  A  yellow  chrys 
anthemum, — a  chrysanthemum  swaying  in  the  wind ! 

There  had  begun  to  be  strong  hopes  of  dinner 
astir  in  this  masculine  coterie,  and  when  the  door 
opened  every  head  was  turned  toward  it.  But  mel 
ancholy  reigned  on  the  face  of  the  cook,  and  it  was 
a  dispirited  cadence  of  his  falsetto  voice  that  made 
known  his  lack. 

"Mr.  Floyd-Rosney,"  he  plained,  "I  can't  dress 
canned  lobster  salad  without  tarragon  vinegar.  This 
yere  cruet  has  got  nuthin'  in  it  in  dis  world  but  apple 
vinegar.  The  Cap'n  nuver  done  me  right." 

"God  A'mighty,  man,  'lobster/'  I  could  eat  the 
can,"  cried  one  of  the  recumbents,  springing  up  with 
such  alacrity  that  his  bounce  awakened  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton,  who  had  been  able  to  forget  his  fatigue 
and  hunger  in  a  doze. 

"Get  that  dinner  on  the  table,  or  I'll  be  the 


THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST        149 

death  of  you,"  cried  Floyd-Rosney.  "We  are 
hungry.  It  is  nearly  five  o'clock  and  we  have  had 
nothing  since  breakfast." 

The  door  closed  slowly  on  the  disaffected  cook, 
who  was  evidently  a  devotee  to  art  for  art's  sake, 
for  he  presently  reappeared  in  his  capacity  of  table 
servant,  as  if  he  had  been  rebuked  in  an  altogether 
different  identity  as  cook.  He  drooped  languidly 
between  the  door  and  the  frame  and  once  more  in 
his  high  falsetto  plaint  he  upbraided  the  Captain. 

"The  Cap'n  nuver  done  me  right.  He  oughter 
have  let  me  pack  that  box,  instead  of  the  steward. 
There  ain't  no  fruit  napkins,  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney. 
Jes'  white  doilies,"  he  was  not  far  from  tears,  "white 
doilies  to  serve  with  o'anges  1" 

The  mere  mention  was  an  appetizer. 

"Let  me  get  at  'em,  whether  they  are  served  with 
doilies  or  bath-towels!"  cried  the  recumbent  figure, 
recumbent  no  longer.  "Call  the  ladies.  Ho,  for 
the  festive  board.  If  you  don't  want  scraps  only, 
you  had  better  not  let  me  get  there  first.  Notify 
the  ladies.  Does  this  vast  mansion  possess  nothing 
that  is  like  a  dinner-bell,  or  a  gong,  or  a  whistle, 
that  may  make  a  cheerful  sound  of  summons.  Ha, 
ha,  ha!" 

"It  compromises  on  something  like  the  crackling 
of  thorns  under  a  pot,"  said  Floyd-Rosney,  sourly. 
Then  with  gracious  urbanity,  "Major,  let  me  give 
you  my  arm,  perhaps  our  presence  at  the  festive 
board  may  hasten  matters." 

The  ladies  had  already  surged  out  into  the  great, 
bare,  echoing  hall,  Hildegarde  Dean,  freshly  ar 
rayed  in  an  Empire  gown,  as  blue  as  her  eyes,  pro 
testing  that  she  was  as  hungry  as  a  hunter.  Ducie 


150       THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

offered  his  arm  ceremoniously  to  her  mother,  and 
Floyd-Rosney,  who  had  intended  his  attention  to  the 
old  blind  Major  as  a  bid  for  his  wife's  notice  and  ap 
proval,  was  not  pleased  to  see  the  procession,  stately 
and  suggestive,  by  reason  of  the  lordly  expansive- 
ness  of  the  place,  headed  by  the  heir  of  the  old  own 
ers  in  the  guise  of  host.  It  was  an  idea  that  never 
entered  Ducie's  mind,  not  even  when  whetting  the 
carving  knife  on  the  steel  in  anticipation  of  dis 
pensing  shares  of  the  saddle  of  mutton  from  his  end 
of  the  table.  At  this  table,  in  truth,  his  grandfather 
had  sat,  and  his  great-grandfather  also,  and  dis 
pensed  its  bounty.  So  heavy  it  was,  so  burdensome 
for  removal,  that  in  the  various  disasters  that  had 
ravaged  the  old  house,  war  and  financial  ruin, 
marauders  and  tramps,  wind  and  rain,  lightning  and 
overflow,  it  had  endured  throughout.  Mahogany 
was  not  earlier  the  rage  as  now,  and  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  up-to-date  man  could  scarcely  be  restrained. 
There  were  no  chairs;  planks  from  the  flooring 
elsewhere  had  been  hastily  stretched  benchwise  on 
the  boxes  that  had  held  the  provisions  and  bedding, 
but  even  this  grotesque  make-shift  did  not  detract 
from  his  keen  discernment  of  the  admirable  in  the 
entourage.  The  size  and  shape  of  the  room,  the 
old-fashioned  bow-window,  the  ornate  mantel-piece, 
the  cabinets  built  into  the  walls  for  the  silver  and 
choice  show  of  old  china,  now  without  even  a  shelf 
or  a  diamond-shaped  pane  of  glass,  the  design  of 
the  paper,  the  stucco  ornaments  about  the  chande 
lier,  or  rather  the  rod  which  had  once  supported  it, 
for  the  pendants  had  been  dismembered  in  wanton 
spoliation  and  now  lay  in  fragments  on  the  lawn 
without,  the  pantry,  the  china-closet,  the  storeroom 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        151 

contiguous  all  came  in  for  his  commendation,  and 
much  he  bewailed  the  grinning  laths  looking  down 
from  the  gaps  in  the  fallen  plaster,  the  smoke- 
grimed  walls,  the  destroyed  hearth,  half  torn  out 
from  the  chimney-place.  The  stream  of  his  talk 
was  only  stemmed  by  the  reappearance  of  the  cook, 
now  with  his  white  jacket  and  apron  in  the  role  of 
waiter.  Every  eye  was  turned  apprehensively  to 
ward  him  lest  he  was  moved  to  say  that  the  Cap'n 
had  ordered  no  dinner  to  be  put  into  the  box.  He 
dolorously  drooped  over  Ducie's  shoulder  in  the 
place  of  host,  and  at  once  disclosed  the  melancholy 
worst.  "Dere  ain't  no  soup,  sir.  While  I  was 
speakin'  to  you  gemmen  in  de — de — in  de  library, 
sir,  de  soup  scorched.  I  had  set  dat  ole  superannu 
ated  mule  of  de  Major's  ter  watch  de  pot  an'  he 
didn't  know  enough  to  set  it  off  de  fire  when  it  took 
to  smokin'.  Hit  was  'p'tage  Bec'mul,  sir." 

Ducie  laughed  and  called  for  the  roast,  and  the 
company,  as  soon  as  the  functionary  had  disap 
peared,  addressed  their  wits  to  the  translation  of  the 
waiter's  French  to  discover  what  manner  of  soup 
they  had  lost. 

Paula  was  not  sorry  to  see  Adrian  Ducie  in  his 
hereditary  place;  somehow  it  would  have  revolted 
her  that  she  and  hers  should  sit  in  the  seat  of  the 
usurper.  Accident  had  willed  it  thus,  and  it  was 
better  so.  She  had  noted  the  quick  glance  of  gaug 
ing  the  effect  which  her  husband  had  cast  at  her  as 
he  made  much  ado  of  settling  the  old  Major  at  the 
table.  Even  without  this  self-betrayal  she  would 
have  recognized  the  demonstration  as  one  of  spe 
cial  design.  How  should  she  now  be  so  discerning, 
she  asked  herself.  She  knew  him,  she  discriminated 


152        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

his  motives,  she  read  his  thoughts  as  though  they 
were  set  forth  on  the  page  of  an  open  book.  And 
of  this  he  was  so  unconscious,  so  assured,  so  confi 
dent  of  her  attitude  as  hitherto  toward  him,  that 
she  had  the  heart  to  pity  while  she  despised  him, 
while  she  revolted  at  the  thought  of  him. 

She  wished  to  risk  not  even  a  word  aside  with 
him.  She  was  eager  to  get  away  from  the  table, 
although  the  dinner  that  the  Captain  had  ordered 
to  be  packed  made  ample  amends  for  the  delay.  It 
had  its  defects,  doubtless,  as  one  might  easily  dis 
cern  from  the  disconsolate  and  well-nigh  inconsol 
able  port  of  the  waiter  at  intervals,  but  these  were 
scarcely  apparent  to  the  palates  of  the  company.  It 
was,  of  course,  inferior  to  the  menus  of  the  far- 
famed  dinners  of  the  steamboats  of  the  olden  times, 
but  there  is  no  likelihood  of  famishing  on  the  Mis 
sissippi  even  at  the  present  day,  and  the  hospitable 
Captain  Disnett  had  no  mind  that  these  voluntary 
cast-a-ways  should  suffer  for  their  precipitancy.  It 
was  still  a  cheerful  group  about  that  storied 
board  as  Paula  slipped  from  the  end  of  the  bench 
and  quietly  through  the  door.  If  her  withdrawal 
were  noted  it  would  doubtless  be  ascribed  to  her 
anxiety  concerning  little  Ned,  and  thus  her  absence 
would  leave  no  field  for  speculation.  She  did  not, 
however,  return  to  the  room  devoted  to  the  use 
of  the  feminine  passengers  of  the  Cherokee  Rose, 
where  the  child  now  lay  asleep.  She  walked  slowly 
up  and  down  the  great  hall,  absorbed  in  thought. 
She  was  continually  surprised  at  herself,  analyzing 
her  own  unwonted  mental  processes.  She  could  not 
understand  her  calmness,  in  this  signal  significant 
discovery  in  her  life,  that  she  did  not  love  her  hus- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        153 

band.  She  would  not  rehearse  his  faults,  retrace 
in  her  recollection  a  thousand  incidents  confirmatory 
of  the  revelation  of  his  character  that  had  been 
elicited  on  this  unhappy  voyage.  How  long,  she 
wondered,  would  the  illusion  have  continued  other 
wise, — to  her  life's  end?  Somehow  she  could  not 
look  forward,  and  she  felt  a  sort  of  stupefaction  in 
this,  although  she  realized  that  her  faculties  were 
roused  by  her  perception  of  the  truth.  The  spirit- 
breaking  process,  of  which  she  had  been  sub-acutely 
aware,  was  ended.  She  could  not  be  so  subjugated 
save  by  love,  the  sedulous  wish  to  please,  the  tender 
fear  of  disapproval,  the  ardent  hope  of  placating. 
Suddenly  she  was  aware  that  she  was  laughing,  the 
fool,  to  have  felt  all  this  for  a  man  who  could  strike 
her,  cruelly,  painfully,  artfully,  on  the  sly  that  none 
might  know.  But  even  while  she  laughed  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  so  did  she  compassionate  the  self 
she  ridiculed  with  scorn  as  if  it  were  some  other 
woman  whom  she  pitied. 

She  felt  as  if  she  must  be  alone.  All  the  day  since 
that  crisis  the  presence  of  people  had  intruded  clam 
orously  upon  her  consciousness.  She  would  fain  take 
counsel  within  herself,  her  own  soul.  Above  all, 
she  wished  to  avoid  the  sight  of  her  husband,  the 
thought  of  him.  Whenever  the  sound  of  voices  in 
the  dining-room  broke  on  her  absorption  as  she 
neared  the  door  in  her  pacing  back  and  forth,  she 
paused,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  tense,  poised,  as 
if  for  flight.  And  at  last,  as  the  clamor  of  quitting 
the  table  heralded  the  approach  of  the  company, 
with  scarcely  a  realized  intention,  the  instinct  of 
escape  took  possession  of  her,  and  she  sped  lightly 
up  the  great  staircase,  as  elusive,  as  unperceived 


154        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

as  the  essence  of  the  echoes  which  she  had  fancied 
might  thence  descend. 

She  hesitated,  gasping  and  out  of  breath,  at  the 
head  of  the  flight,  looking  about  aghast  at  the  gaunt 
aspect  of  the  wrecked  mansion.  The  hall  was  a 
replica  of  the  one  below,  save  that  there  were  three 
great  windows  opening  on  a  balcony  instead  of  the 
front  door.  The  glass  was  broken  out,  the  Venetian 
blinds  were  torn  away,  and  from  where  she  stood 
she  could  see  the  massive  Corinthian  columns  of  the 
portico  rising  to  the  floor  of  the  story  still  above. 
A  number  of  large  apartments  opened  on  this  hall, 
their  proportions  and  ornate  mantel-pieces  all  vis 
ible,  for  the  doors,  either  swung  ajar  or  wrenched 
from  their  hinges,  lay  upon  the  floors.  Paula  did 
not  note,  or  perhaps  she  forgot,  that  the  wreck 
expressed  forty  years  of  neglect,  of  license  and 
rapine  and  was  the  wicked  work  of  generations  of 
marauders.  She  felt  that  the  destruction  was  actu 
ated  by  a  sort  of  fiendish  malice.  It  had  required 
both  time  and  strength,  as  well  as  wanton  enmity, 
a  class  hatred,  one  might  suppose,  bitter  and  unrea 
soning,  the  wrath  of  the  poor  against  the  rich,  even 
though  unmindful  and  indifferent  to  the  injury.  It 
seemed  so  strange  to  her  that  the  house  should  be 
left  thus  by  its  owners,  despite  its  inutilities  in  the 
changed  conditions  of  the  world.  It  had  a  dignity, 
as  of  the  ruin  of  princes,  in  its  vestiges  of  beauty 
and  splendor,  and  the  savor  of  old  days  that  were 
now  historic  and  should  hold  a  sort  of  sanctity. 
Even  the  insensate  walls,  in  the  rifts  of  their  shat 
tered  plaster,  their  besmirched  spoliation,  expressed 
a  subtle  reproach,  such  as  one  might  behold  in  some 
old  human  face  buffeted  and  reviled  without  a  cause. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        155 

She  had  a  swift  illumination  how  it  would  have 
rejoiced  the  Ducies  to  have  set  up  here  their  staff 
of  rest  in  the  home  hallowed  as  the  harbor  of  their 
ancestors.  They  were  receptive  to  all  the  finer  illu 
sions  of  life.  They  cherished  their  personal  pride; 
they  revered  their  ancient  name;  they  honored  this 
spot  as  the  cradle  of  their  forefathers,  and  although 
they  were  poor  in  the  world's  opinion,  they  held 
in  their  own  consciousness  that  treasure  of  a  love  of 
lineage,  that  obligation  to  conform  to  a  high  stand 
ard  which  imposed  a  rule  of  conduct  and  elevated 
them  in  their  own  esteem.  Their  standpoint  was 
all  drearily  out  of  fashion,  funny  and  forlorn,  but 
she  could  have  wept  for  them.  And  why,  since  the 
place  had  no  prosaic  value,  had  not  Fate  left  it  to 
those  whom  it  would  have  so  subtly  enriched.  Here 
in  seemly  guise,  in  well-ordered  decorum,  in  seclu 
sion  from  the  sordid  world,  the  brothers  who  so 
dearly  loved  each  other  would  have  dwelt  in  peace 
together,  would  have  taken  unto  themselves  wives; 
children  of  the  name  and  blood  of  the  old  heritage 
would  have  been  reared  'here  as  in  an  eagle's  nest, 
with  all  the  high  traditions  that  have  been  long  disre 
garded  and  forgotten.  It  seemed  so  ignoble,  so 
painful,  so  unjust,  that  the  place  should  be  thus 
neglected,  despised,  cast  aside,  and  yet  withheld 
from  its  rightful  owners.  She  caught  herself  sud 
denly  at  the  word.  Her  husband,  her  son,  were 
the  rightful  owners  now,  and  it  was  their  predecessor 
who  did  not  care. 

As  she  stood  gazing  blankly  forward  the  three 
windows  of  the  upper  hall  suddenly  flamed  with  a 
saffron  glow,  for  they  faced  a  great  expanse  of  the 
southwestern  sky,  which,  for  one  brief  moment,  was 


156       THE    STORY    OP   DUCIEHURST 

full  of  glory.  The  waters  of  the  Mississippi  were 
a  rippling  flood  of  molten  gold;  the  dun-tinted,  leaf 
less  forests  on  either  bank  accentuated  in  somber 
contrast  this  splendid  apotheosis  of  the  waning  day. 
The  magnolia  trees  about  the  house  shone  with 
every  glossy  leaf,  an  emerald  for  richness  of  hue, 
and  all  at  once,  far  beyond,  Paula  beheld  the  solu 
tion  of  the  mystery  that  had  baffled  her,  the  answer 
to  her  question,  the  Duciehurst  cotton  fields,  as  white 
as  snow,  as  level  as  a  floor,  as  visibly  wealth-laden 
as  if  the  rich  yield  of  the  soil  were  already  coined 
into  gold.  Here  was  the  interest  of  the  sordid 
proprietors;  the  home  was  no  home  of  theirs;  they 
had  been  absentees  from  the  first  of  their  tenure. 
The  glimmering  marble  cross,  the  lofty  granite  shaft 
that  showed  when  the  wind  shifted  among  the 
gloomy  boughs  of  the  weeping  willows  in  the  family 
graveyard,  marked  the  resting  place  of  none  of  their 
kindred.  Their  bones  were  none  of  these  bones, 
their  flesh  sprung  from  none  of  these  dead  ashes. 
The  Duciehurst  lands  made  cotton,  and  cotton  made 
money,  and  the  old  house,  built  under  other  condi 
tions,  was  suited  to  no  needs  that  they  could  create 
in  the  exigencies  of  a  new  day.  Therefore,  it  was 
left  to  shelter  the  owl,  the  gopher,  the  river-pirate, 
the  shanty-boater,  the  moon  in  its  revolutions,  and 
when  the  nights  were  wild  the  wind  seemed  to  issue 
thence  as  from  a  lair  of  mysteries. 

Paula  suddenly  turned  from  the  revelation,  and 
gathering  the  lustrous  white  skirt  of  her  crepe  dress, 
freshly  donned,  in  one  jewelled  hand  with  a  care 
unconsciously  dainty,  as  was  her  habit,  she  noise 
lessly  slipped  up  the  great  dusty  spiral  of  the  stair 
leading  to  the  third  story,  lest  curiosity  induced  some 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        157 

exploring  intrusive  foot  thus  far,  ere  she  had  thought 
out  her  perplexity  to  its  final  satisfaction.  She  was 
aware  that  the  day  dulled  and  darkened  suddenly; 
she  heard  the  wind  burst  into  gusty  sobs;  the  clouds 
had  fallen  to  weeping  anew,  and  the  night  was  close 
at  hand.  She  was  curiously  incongruous  with  the 
place  as  she  stood  looking  upward,  the  light  upon  her 
face,  at  a  great  rift  in  the  roof.  The  rain-drops 
dripped  monotonously  from  smaller  crevices  down 
upon  the  floor  with  a  sort  of  emphasis,  as  if  the  num 
ber  were  registered  and  it  kept  a  tally.  There  were 
doubtless  divisions  and  partitions  further  to  the  rear, 
but  this  apartment  was  spacious  above  the  square 
portion  of  the  mansion,  and  the  ceiling  had  a  high 
pitch.  She  thought  for  a  moment  that  they  might 
have  danced  here  in  the  old  times,  so  fine  were  the 
proportions  of  the  place.  Then  she  remembered  that 
third-story  ball-rooms  were  not  formerly  in  vogue, 
and  that  she  had  heard  that  the  one  at  Duciehurst 
was  situated  in  the  west  wing  on  the  ground  floor. 
This  commodious  apartment  must  have  been  a  place 
of  bestowal.  The  walls  betokened  the  remnants  of 
presses,  and  she  could  almost  fancy  that  she  could 
see  the  array  of  trunks,  of  chests,  of  discarded  fur 
niture,  more  old-fashioned  than  that  below,  the  bags 
of  simples,  of  hyacinth  bulbs  which  were  uprooted 
every  second  year  to  be  planted  anew.  There  was 
an  intensification  of  the  spirit  of  spoil  manifested 
elsewhere  as  if  the  search  for  the  hidden  treasure 
here  had  been  more  desperate  and  radical.  The 
chimneys  seemed  to  have  been  special  subjects  of  sus 
picion,  for  several  showed  that  the  solid  masonry 
had  been  gouged  out,  leaving  great  hollows.  As 
she  stood  amidst  the  gray  shadows  in  her  lustrous 


158        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

white  crepe  gown  with  the  shimmer  of  satin  from 
its  garniture,  she  was  a  poetic  presentment,  even 
while  engrossed  in  making  the  prosaic  deduction 
that  here  was  the  reason  these  chimneys  smoked 
when  fires  were  kindled  below. 

The  solitude  was  intense,  the  silence  an  awesome 
stillness,  her  thoughts,  recurring  to  her  own  sorry 
fate,  were  strenuous  and  troublous,  and  thus  even 
her  strong,  elastic  young  physique  was  beginning  to 
feel  very  definitely  the  stress  of  fatigue,  and  excite 
ment,  and  fear,  that  had  filled  the  day  as  well  as  the 
effects  of  the  emotional  crisis  which  she  had  endured. 
She  found  that  she  could  scarcely  stand;  indeed,  she 
tottered  with  a  sense  of  feebleness,  of  faintness,  as 
she  looked  about  for  some  support,  something  on 
which  she  might  lean,  or  better  still,  something  that 
might  serve  as  a  seat.  Suddenly  she  started  forward 
toward  the  window  near  the  outer  corner  of  the 
room.  The  low  sill  was  broad  and  massive  in  con 
formity  with  the  general  design  of  the  house,  and 
she  sank  down  here  in  comfort,  resting  her  head 
against  the  heavy  moulding  of  the  frame.  Her 
eyes  turned  without,  and  she  noted  with  a  certain 
interest  the  great  foliated  ornaments,  the  carved 
acanthus  leaves  of  the  capitals  of  the  Corinthian 
columns,  one  of  which  was  so  close  at  hand  that  she 
might  almost  have  touched  it,  for  the  roof  of  the 
portico  here,  which  had  been  nearly  on  a  level  with 
the  window,  was  now  in  great  part  torn  away,  giv 
ing  a  full  view  of  the  stone  floor  below.  This  col 
umn  was  the  pilaster,  half  the  bulk  of  the  others, 
being  buttressed  against  the  wall.  The  size  of  the 
columns  was  far  greater  than  she  had  supposed, 
looking  at  them  from  below,  the  capitals  were  fin- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        159 

ished  with  a  fine  attention  to  detail.  The  portico 
was  indeed  an  admirable  example  of  this  sort  of 
adapted  architecture  which  is  usually  distinguished 
rather  by  its  license  than  its  success.  But  she  had 
scant  heart  to  mark  its  values  or  effect.  Her  reflec 
tions  were  introspective.  She  looked  out  drearily 
on  the  wan  wastes  of  the  skies,  and  the  somber  night 
closing  in,  and  bethought  herself  of  the  woeful 
change  in  the  atmosphere  of  her  soul  since  the  skies 
last  darkened.  She  said  to  herself  that  illusions 
were  made  for  women,  who  were  not  fitted  to  cope 
with  facts,  and  that  it  was  better  to  be  a  loving  fool, 
gulled  into  the  fancy  that  she,  too,  is  beloved,  than 
to  see  clearly,  and  judge  justly,  and  harbor  an  empty 
aching  heart.  For  there  was  no  recourse  for  her. 
It  was  not  in  her  power  to  frame  her  future.  Her 
husband  had,  and  he  knew  he  had,  the  most  com 
plete  impunity,  and  doubtless  this  gave  him  an  as 
surance  in  domineering  that  he  would  not  other 
wise  have  dared  to  exert.  He  was  cognizant  of 
her  delicate  pride,  the  odium  in  which  she  would 
hold  the  idea  of  publicity  in  conjugal  dissension. 
She  would  never  have  permitted,  save  under  some 
extreme  stress  like  that  of  the  single  instance  of  the 
morning,  others  to  look  in  upon  a  difference  be 
tween  them,  yet  there  had  been  from  the  first  much 
to  bear  from  his  self-absorbed  and  imperious  tem 
per,  and  she  had  borne  it  to  the  extent  of  self-im 
molation,  of  self-extinction.  In  fact,  she  was  not, 
she  had  not  been  for  years,  herself.  She  could  not 
say,  indeed,  when  her  old  identity  had  asserted  itself 
before  to-day.  It  was  the  aspect  of  the  Ducie  face, 
the  associations  of  the  past  that  had  recalled  her 
real  self  to  life,  that  had  relumed  the  spark  of  pride 


160       THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

which  had  once  been  her  dominant  trait,  that  had 
given  her  courage  to  revolt  at  rebuke  in  Adrian's 
presence,  to  hold  up  her  head,  to  speak  from  her 
own  individuality,  to  be  an  influence  to  be  reckoned 
with.  But  of  what  avail?  Life  must  go  on  as  here 
tofore,  the  old  semblance  of  submission,  of  adula 
tion,  the  adjustment  of  every  word,  every  idea, 
every  desire,  to  the  mould  of  her  husband's  thought, 
his  preference.  She  wondered  how  she  would  be 
enabled  to  maintain  the  farce  of  her  love,  that  had 
hitherto  seemed  capable  of  infinite  endurance,  of 
limitless  pardoning  power,  and  the  coercive  admira 
tion  for  him  that  she  had  felt  throughout  all  these 
five  years.  He  was  aware,  and  this  fact  was  so 
certain  that  she  was  sure  he  had  never  given  the 
matter  even  a  casual,  careless  thought,  that  for  the 
sake  of  their  son,  his  precious  presence,  his  comfort 
and  care,  his  future  standing  before  the  world,  no 
recourse  was  possible  for  her,  no  separation,  no 
divorce.  Floyd-Rosney  might  beat  her  with  a  stick 
if  he  would,  instead  of  that  deft,  crafty  little  blow 
he  had  dealt  on  her  wrist  with  his  knuckles,  and  she 
would  hide  the  wales  for  her  child's  sweet  sake.  No 
law  was  ever  framed  comprehensive  enough  to 
shield  her.  She  was  beyond  the  pale  and  the  pro 
tection  of  the  law.  And  as  she  realized  this  she 
held  down  her  head  and  began  to  shed  some  miser 
able  tears. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  relaxation  that  overpowered 
her  nerves,  this  cessation  of  resistance  and  repining. 
When  she  opened  her  eyes  after  an  interval  of  un 
consciousness  her  first  thought  was  of  the  detail  of 
the  Scriptures  touching  the  young  man  who  slept 
in  a  high  window  through  the  apostle's  preaching 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST       161k 

and  "fell  down  from  the  third  loft."  She  had  never 
imagined  that  she  should  do  so  reckless,  so  wild 
a  thing.  Her  methods  were  all  precautionary,  her 
mental  attitude  quiet  and  composed.  She  still  sat 
in  the  window,  looking  out  for  a  little  space  longer, 
for  she  was  indisposed  to  exertion;  her  muscles  were 
stiff,  and  her  very  bones  seemed  to  ache  with  fatigue. 
The  sky  had  cleared  while  she  slept;  only  a  few 
white,  fleecy  lines,  near  the  horizon,  betokened  the 
passing  of  the  clouds.  It  had  that  delicate  ethereal 
blue  peculiar  to  a  night  of  lunar  light,  for  the  stars 
were  faint,  barring  the  luster  of  one  splendid  planet, 
the  moon  being  near  the  full  and  high  in  the  sky. 
The  beams  fell  in  broad  skeins  diagonally  through 
the  front  windows,  while  the  one  at  the  side  gave 
upon  the  dark  summits  of  the  great  magnolias, 
where  the  radiance  lingered,  enriching  the  gloss  of 
their  sempervirent  foliage.  The  weeping  willows 
in  their  leafless  state  were  all  a  fibrous  glister  like 
silver  fountains,  and  in  their  midst  she  could  see 
glimpses  in  the  moonlight  of  the  white  gleam  of  the 
marble  cross,  the  draped  funereal  urn,  the  granite 
shaft  where  those  who  had  once  rested  secure  be 
neath  this  kindly  roof  of  home  now  slept  more  se 
curely  still  within  the  shadow  of  its  ruin.  A  broken 
roof  it  now  was,  and  through  the  rift  overhead  the 
moonlight  poured  in  a  suffusive  flood,  illuminating 
all  the  space  beneath.  She  heard  the  plaintive  drip, 
drip,  drip,  from  some  pool  among  the  shingles 
where  the  rain  had  found  a  lodgment.  The  river 
flashed  in  myriad  ripples,  as  steadily,  ceaselessly  it 
swept  on  its  surging  way  to  the  Gulf.  She  was 
familiar  with  its  absolute  silence,  concomitant  with 
its  great  depth,  save,  of  course,  in  the  cataclysmal 


162        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

crisis  of  a  crevasse,  and  as  she  heard  the  unmistak 
able  sound  of  a  dash  of  water,  she  bent  a  startled 
intentness  of  gaze  on  the  surface  to  perceive  a  row- 
boat  steadily,  but  slowly,  pulling  up  the  current.  She 
wondered  at  her  own  surprise,  yet  so  secluded  was 
the  solitude  here  that  any  sight  or  sound  of  man 
seemed  abnormal,  an  intrusion.  She  knew  that  a 
boat  was  as  accustomed  an  incident  of  a  riverside 
locality  as  a  carriage  or  a  motor  in  a  street.  It 
betokened  some  planter,  perhaps,  returning  late, 
because  of  the  storm,  from  a  neighboring  store  or 
a  friend's  house.  Any  waterside  errand  might 
duplicate  the  traffic  of  the  highway. 

How  late  was  it,  she  wondered,  for  her  interest 
in  the  boat  had  dwindled  as  it  passed  out  of  sight 
beneath  the  high  bank.  The  idea  that,  perhaps  she 
alone  was  waking  in  this  great,  ruinous  house  gave 
her  a  vague  chill  of  fear.  She  began  to  question 
how  she  could  nerve  herself,  with  this  overwhelm 
ing  sense  of  solitude,  to  attempt  the  exit  through 
the  labyrinth  of  sinister  shadows  and  solemn,  silent, 
moonlit  spaces  among  the  unfamiliar  passages  and 
rooms  to  the  ground  floor.  She  remembered  that 
the  railing  of  the  spiral  staircase  had  shaken,  here 
and  there,  beneath  her  hand  as  she  had  ascended, 
the  wood  of  the  supporting  balusters  having  rotted 
in  the  rain  that  had  fallen  for  years  through  the 
shattered  skylight.  Her  progress  had  been  made 
in  the  daylight,  and  she  had  now  only  the  glimmer 
of  the  moon,  from  distant  windows  and  the  rift  in 
the  roof.  She  began  to  think  of  calling  for  assist 
ance;  this  great  empty  space  would  echo  like  a  drum, 
she  knew,  but  unfamiliar  with  the  plan  of  the  house 
$he  could  not  determine  the  location  of  the  rooms 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        163 

occupied  by  the  party  from  the  Cherokee  Rose.  If 
the  hour  were  late,  as  she  felt  it  must  be,  and  their 
inmates  all  asleep,  she  might  fail  to  make  herself 
heard.  And  then  she  felt  she  would  die  of  solitary 
terror. 

Paula  could  not  sufficiently  rebuke  her  own  folly 
that  she  should  have  lingered  so  long  apart  from 
the  party,  that  she  should  have  carried  so  far  her 
explorations, — nay,  it  was  an  instinct  of  flight  that 
had  led  her  feet.  She  dreaded  her  husband's  in 
dignant  and  scornful  surprise  and  his  trenchant  re 
buke.  She  realized  why  she  had  not  been  already 
missed  by  him  as  well  as  by  the  others.  Doubtless 
the  ladies  who  were  to  occupy  the  music-room  as  a 
dormitory  had  retired  early,  spent  with  fatigue  and 
excitement.  Perhaps  Hildegarde  Dean  might  have 
sat  for  a  time  in  the  bow-window  of  the  dining- 
room  and  talked  to  Adrian  Ducie,  and  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton,  and  Major  Lacey,  as  they  ranged  them 
selves  on  one  of  the  benches  by  the  dining-table  and 
smoked  in  the  light  of  a  kerosene  lamp  which  the 
Captain  had  furnished  forth,  and  watched  the  moon 
rise  over  the  magnolias,  and  the  melancholy  weep 
ing  willows,  and  the  marble  memorials  glimmering 
in  the  slanting  light.  But  even  Hildegarde  could 
not  flirt  all  day  and  all  night,  too.  Paula  could 
imagine  that  when  she  came  into  the  music-room, 
silent  and  on  tip-toe,  she  stepped  out  of  her  blue 
toggery  with  all  commendable  dispatch,  only  lighted 
by  the  moon,  gave  her  dense  black  hair  but  a  toss 
and  piled  it  on  her  head  and  slipped  into  bed  with 
out  disturbing  the  lightest  sleeper,  unconscious  that 
the  cot  where  little  Ned  should  slumber  in  his  moth 
er's  bosom  was  empty,  but  for  his  own  chubby 


164        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

form.  The  men,  too,  as  they  lay  in  a  row  on  the 
shake-down  in  the  smoking-room  with  their  feet  to 
the  fire,  might  have  chatted  for  a  little  while,  but 
doubtless  they  soon  succumbed  to  drowsiness,  and 
slumbered  heavily  in  the  effects  of  their  drenchings 
and  exhaustion,  and  it  would  require  vigorous  pound 
ings  on  their  door  to  rouse  them  in  the  morning. 

Obviously  there  was  no  recourse.  Paula  per 
ceived  that  she  must  compass  her  own  retreat  un 
aided.  She  rose  with  the  determination  to  attempt 
the  descent  of  the  stairs.  Then,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot,  she  sank  down  on  the  broad  sill  of  the  win 
dow.  A  sudden  raucous  voice  broke  upon  the  spec 
tral  silence,  the  still  midnight. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PAULA  looked  down  through  the  broken  roof  of 
the  portico  supported  by  the  massive  Corinthian 
columns.  A  group  of  men  stood  on  the  stone  floor 
below,  men  of  slouching,  ill-favored  aspect.  She 
could  not  for  one  moment  confuse  them  with  the 
inmates  of  the  house,  now  silent  and  asleep,  although 
her  first  hopeful  thought  was  that  some  nocturnal 
alarm  had  brought  forth  the  refugees  of  the  Chero 
kee  Rose. 

The  newcomers  made  no  effort  at  repression  or 
secrecy.  They  could  have  had  no  idea  that  the 
house  was  occupied.  Evidently  they  felt  as  alone, 
as  secluded,  as  secure  from  observation,  as  if  in  a 
desert.  They  were  not  even  in  haste  to  exploit  their 
design.  A  great  brawny,  workman-like  man  was 
taking  to  task  a  fellow  in  top-boots  and  riding- 
breeches. 

"Why  did  you  go  off  an'  leave  Cap'n  Treherne?" 
he  asked  severely. 

The  ex-jockey  seemed  somewhat  under  the  influ 
ence  of  liquor,  not  now  absolutely  drunk,  although 
hiccoughing  occasionally — in  that  dolorous  stage 
known  as  "sobering  up." 

"If  you  expected  me  to  stay  here  all  that  time, 
with  no  feed  at  all,  you  were  clear  out  of  the  run 
ning,"  he  protested.  "I  lit  out  before  the  blow 
came,  an'  after  the  storm  was  over  I  knowed  you 

165 


166       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

fellers  couldn't  row  back  here  against  the  current 
with  the  water  goin'  that  gait.  So  I  took  my  time 
as  you  took  yourn." 

The  next  speaker  was  of  a  curiously  soaked  aspect, 
as  if  overlaid  with  the  ooze,  and  slime,  and  decay 
of  the  riverside,  like  some  rotting  log  or  a  lurking 
snag,  worthless  in  itself,  without  a  use  on  either  land 
or  water,  neither  afloat  nor  ashore,  its  only  mission 
of  submerged  malice  to  drive  its  tooth  into  the  hull 
of  some  stanch  steamer  and  drag  it  down,  with  its 
living  freight,  and  its  wealth  of  cargo,  and  its  de 
stroyed  machinery,  to  a  grave  among  the  lifeless 
roots.  His  voice  seemed  water-logged,  too,  and 
came  up  in  a  sort  of  gurgle,  so  defective  was  his 
articulation. 

"You-all  run  off  an'  lef  me  las'  night,  but  Jessy 
Jane  put  me  wise  this  mornin',  an'  I  was  away  be 
fore  the  wind  had  riz.  I  stopped  by  here  to  see  if 
you  was  about,  but  I  declar'  if  I  had  knowed  that 
you  had  lef  Cap'n  Treherne  in  thar  tied  up  like  a 
chicken,  I'm  durned  if  I  wouldn't  hev  set  him  loose, 
to  pay  you  back  for  the  trick  you  played  me.  But 
I  met  up  with  Colty,"  nodding  at  the  jockey,  "an' 
we  come  back  just  now  together." 

Binnhart's  brow  darkened  balefully  as  he  listened 
to  this  ineffective  threat  while  old  Berridge 
chuckled. 

Another  man  with  a  sailor-like  roll  in  his  walk 
was  leaning  on  an  axe.  Suddenly  he  cast  his  eyes 
up  at  the  pilaster.  Paula  on  the  shadowy  side  of 
the  window  sat  quite  still,  not  daring  to  move,  hop 
ing  for  invisibility,  although  her  heart  beat  so  loud 
that  she  thought  they  might  hear  its  pulsations  even 
at  the  distance. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        167 

"Durned  if  I  got  much  sense  out  of  that  fool 
builder's  talk  to  you,  Jasper,"  he  said.  "I  think 
you  paid  out  too  much  line, — never  held  him  to  the 
p'int.  You  let  him  talk  sixteen  ter  the  dozen  'bout 
things  we  warn't  consarned  with,  pediments,  an' 
plinths,  an'  architraves,  an'  entablatures,  an',  shucks, 
I  dunno  now  what  half  of  'em  mean." 

"I  had  to  do  that  to  keep  him  from  suspicionin' 
what  we  were  after,"  Binnhart  justified  his  policy. 
"All  I  wanted  to  know  was  just  what  a  'pilaster1 
might  be." 

"An'  this  half  column  ag'in  the  wall  is  the  'pilas 
ter'  the  Crazy  talked  about?"  And  once  more  the 
shanty-boater  cast  up  a  speculative  eye.  "But  I 
ain't  sensed  yit  what  he  meant  by  his  mention  of  a 
capital." 

"Why,  Jackson,  capital  of  Miss'ippi,  ye  fool  you, 
fines'  city  in  the  Union,"  exclaimed  a  younger  replica 
of  the  old  water-rat,  coming  up  from  the  shrubbery 
with  a  lot  of  tools  in  a  smith's  shoeing-box,  from 
which,  as  he  still  held  it,  Binnhart  began  with  a 
careful  hand  to  select  the  implements  that  were 
needed  for  the  work. 

"How  do  you  know  the  plunder  is  in  the 
'pilaster'?"  asked  Connover,  the  dejected  phase  of 
the  "after  effects"  clouding  his  optimism. 

"Why,  he  talked  about  it  in  his  sleep.  He  may 
be  crazy  when  he  is  awake,  but  he  talks  as  straight 
as  a  string  in  his  sleep.  Fust  chance,  as  I  gathered, 
that  he  has  ever  had  to  be  sane  enough  to  make  a 
try  for  the  swag,"  explained  Berridge.  "But  I 
dunno  why  you  pick  out  this  partic'lar  pilaster,"  and 
he,  too,  gazed  up  at  its  lofty  height. 

"By  the  way  he  looked  at  it  when  we  was  fetchin' 


168        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

him  in  from  the  skiff,  that's  why,  you  shrimp,"  ex 
claimed  the  shanty-boater. 

"I  don't  call  that  a  straight  tip,"  said  Connover, 
discontentedly. 

"Why,  man,  this  Treherne  was  with  Archie  Ducie 
when  they  hid  the  plunder.  This  is  the  column  he 
says  in  his  sleep  they  put  it  in,  an',  by  God,  I'll 
bring  the  whole  thing  to  the  ground  but  what  I 
s'arches  it,  from  top  to  bottom.  I'll  bust  it  wide 
open." 

With  the  words  the  shanty-boater  heaved  up  the 
axe  and  smote  the  column  so  strong  a  blow  that 
Paula  felt  the  vibrations  through  the  wall  to  the 
window  where  she  sat. 

"What  are  ye  goin'  to  do  with  Crazy?"  demanded 
old  Berridge  with  a  malicious  leer. 

"Better  bring  Cap'n  Crazy  out  right  now  an' 
make  him  tell,  willy  nilly,  exactly  where  the  stuff  is 
hid,"  urged  the  disaffected  Connover. 

"Oh,  he'll  tell,  fas'  enough,"  rejoined  old  Ber 
ridge.  He  began  to  dwell  gleefully  on  the  coercive 
effects  of  burning  the  ends  of  the  fingers  and  the 
soles  of  the  feet  with  lighted  matches. 

"Lime  is  better,"  declared  his  son,  entering 
heartily  into  the  scheme.  "Put  lime  in  his  eyes,  ef 
he  refuses  to  talk,  an'  he  won't  hold  out.  Lime  is 
the  ticket.  Plenty  lime  here  handy  in  the  plaster." 

"Slaked,  you  fool,  you!"  commented  Binnhart. 
Then,  "I  ain't  expectin'  to  git  the  secret  out'n  Cap'n 
Treherne  now,  I  b'lieve  he'd  die  fust!" 

"He  would,"  said  the  shanty-boater,  with  con 
viction.  "I  know  the  cut  of  the  jib." 

"We  had  to  keep  him  here  handy,  though,  or  he 
might  tell  it  to  somebody  else.  But,  Jorrocks,  can't 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        169 

you  see  with  half  an  eye  that  there  has  never  been 
an  entrance  made  in  that  pillar.  Them  soldier  fel 
lows  were  not  practiced  in  the  use  of  tools.  The 
most  they  could  have  done  was  to  rip  off  the  wash 
board  of  the  room,  flush  with  the  pilaster.  They 
must  have  sot  the  box  on  the  top  of  the  stone  base 
inside  the  column.  This  base  is  solid." 

He  was  measuring  with  a  foot-rule  the  distance 
from  the  pilaster  to  the  nearest  window.  It  opened 
down  to  the  floor  of  the  portico  and  was  without 
either  sash  or  glass.  As  the  group  of  clumsy,  lurch 
ing  figures  disappeared  within,  Paula,  with  a  sud 
den  wild  illumination  and  a  breathless  gasp  of  ex 
citement,  sprang  to  her  feet.  The  capital,  said 
they?  The  pilaster!  She  fell  upon  the  significance 
of  these  words.  The  treasure,  long  sought,  was 
here,  under  her  very  hand.  She  caught  up  a  heavy 
iron  rod  that  she  had  noticed  among  the  rubbish 
of  broken  plaster  and  fallen  laths  on  the  floor.  It 
had  been  a  portion  of  a  chandelier,  and  it  might 
serve  both  as  lever  and  wedge.  The  rats  had 
gnawed  the  washboard  in  the  corner,  she  trembled 
for  the  integrity  of  the  storied  knapsack,  but  the 
gaping  cavity  gave  entrance  to  the  rod.  As  she 
began  to  prize  against  the  board  with  all  her  might 
she  remembered  with  a  sinking  heart  that  they 
builded  well  in  the  old  days,  but  it  was  creaking — 
it  was  giving  way.  It  had  been  thrust  from  the 
wall  ere  this.  She,  too,  took  heed  of  the  fact  that 
it  was  the  clumsy  work  of  soldier  boys  which  had 
replaced  the  solid  walnut,  no  mechanic's  trained 
hands,  and  the  thought  gave  her  hope.  She  thrust 
her  dainty  foot  within  the  aperture,  and  kept  it  open 
with  the  heel  of  her  Oxford  tie,  as  more  and  more 


170        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

the  washboard  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  the  iron 
rod,  which,  like  a  lever,  she  worked  to  and  fro  with 
both  arms. 

In  the  silence  of  the  benighted  place  through  the 
floor  she  heard  now  and  then  a  dull  thud,  but  as  yet 
no  sound  of  riving  wood.  The  washboard  there — 
or  was  it  wainscot? — had  never  been  removed,  and 
the  task  of  the  marauders  was  more  difficult  than 
hers.  She  was  devoured  by  a  turbulent  accession  of 
haste.  They  would  make  their  water-haul  present 
ly,  and  then  would  repair  hither  to  essay  the  capital 
of  the  pilaster.  Was  that  a  step  on  the  stair? 

In  a  wild  frenzy  of  exertion  she  put  forth  an 
effort  of  which  she  would  not  have  believed  herself 
capable.  The  board  gave  way  so  abruptly  that  she 
almost  fell  upon  the  floor.  The  next  moment  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  fainting.  Before  her  was 
naught  but  the  brickwork  of  the  wall.  Yet,  stay, 
here  the  bricks  had  been  removed  for  a  little  space 
and  relaid  without  mortar.  She  gouged  them  out 
again  after  the  fashion  of  the  marauder,  and  behind 
them  saw  into  the  interior  of  the  pilaster.  The  cav 
ity  was  flush  with  the  floor.  She  thrust  in  her  hand, 
nothing!  Still  further  with  like  result.  She  flung 
herself  down  upon  the  floor  and  ran  her  arm  in  to 
its  extreme  length.  She  touched  a  fluffy,  disinte 
grated  mass,  sere  leaves  it  might  have  been,  feath 
ers  or  fur.  Her  dainty  fingers  tingled  with  repul 
sion  as  they  closed  upon  it.  She  steadily  pulled  it 
forward,  and,  oh,  joy,  she  felt  a  weight,  a  heavy 
weight.  She  thrust  in  both  arms  and  drew  toward 
her  slowly,  carefully — a  footfall  on  the  stair,  was  it? 
Still  slowly,  carefully,  the  tattered  remnants  of  an 
old  knapsack,  and  a  box,  around  which  it  had  been 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST         171 

wrapped.  A  metal  box  it  was,  of  the  style  for 
merly  used,  inclosed  in  leather  as  jewel-cases,  locked, 
bound  with  steel  bands,  studded  with  brass  rivets, 
intact  and  weighty. 

Paula  sprang  up  with  a  bound.  For  one  moment 
she  paused  with  the  burden  in  her  arms,  doubting 
whether  she  should  conceal  the  chest  anew  or  dare 
the  stairs.  The  next,  as  silent  as  a  moonbeam,  as 
fleet  as  the  gust  that  tossed  her  skirts,  she  sped 
around  the  twists  of  the  spiral  turns  and  reached  the 
second  story.  She  looked  over  the  balustrade,  no 
light,  save  the  moonbeams  falling  through  the  great 
doorless  portal,  no  sign  of  life;  no  sound.  But 
hark,  the  gnawing  of  a  patient  chisel,  and  presently 
the  fibrous  rasping  of  riving  wood  came  from  the 
empty  apartments  on  the  left.  Still  at  work  were 
the  marauders,  and  still  she  was  safe.  She  con 
tinued  her  descent,  silently  and  successfully  gaining 
the  entresol,  but  as  she  turned  to  essay  the  flight 
to  the  lower  hall  she  lost  the  self-control  so  long 
maintained,  so  strained.  Still  at  full  speed  she  came, 
silent  no  longer,  screaming  like  a  banshee.  Her 
voice  filled  the  weird  old  house  with  shrill  horror, 
resounding,  echoing,  waking  every  creature  that 
slept  to  a  frenzied  panic,  and  bringing  into  the  hall 
all  the  men  of  the  steamboat's  party,  half  dressed, 
as  behooves  a  "shake-down."  The  women,  less 
presentable,  held  their  door  fast  and  clamored  out 
alternate  inquiry  and  terror. 

"I  have  found  it!  I  have  found  it!"  she  man 
aged  to  articulate,  wild-eyed,  laughing  and  scream 
ing  together,  and  rushing  with  the  box  to  the  aston 
ished  Ducie,  she  placed  it  in  his  hands.  "And,  oh, 
the  house  is  full  of  robbers  1" 


172        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

The  disheveled  group  stood  as  if  petrified  for  a 
moment,  the  moonbeams  falling  through  the  open 
doorway,  giving  the  only  illumination.  But  the  light, 
although  pale  and  silvery,  was  distinct;  it  revealed 
the  intent  half-dressed  figures,  the  starting  eyes,  the 
alert  attitudes,  and  elicited  a  steely  glimmer  from 
more  than  one  tense  grasp,  for  this  is  preeminently 
the  land  of  the  pistol-pocket.  The  fact  was  of  great 
deterrent  effect  in  this  instance,  for  if  the  vistas  of 
shadow  and  sheen  within  the  empty  suites  of  apart 
ments  gave  upon  this  picture  of  the  coterie,  wrought 
in  gray  and  purple  tones  and  pearly  gleams,  it  was 
of  so  sinister  a  suggestion  as  to  rouse  prudential 
motives.  There  were  ten  stalwart  men  of  the  steam 
boat's  passengers  here,  and  the  marauders  numbered 
but  five. 

A  sudden  scream  from  the  ladies'  dormitory  broke 
the  momentary  pause.  A  man,  nay,  three  or  four 
men,  had  rushed  past  the  windows  on  the  portico. 

"I  hear  them  now!"  cried  Hildegarde  Dean; 
"they  are  crashing  through  the  shiubbery." 

"Nonsense,"  Floyd-Rosney  brusquely  exclaimed. 
"There  are  no  robbers  here."  Then  to  his  wife, 
"Is  this  hysteria,  Paula,  or  are  you  spoiling  for  a 
sensation?" 

She  did  not  answer.  She  did  not  heed.  She  still 
stood  in  the  attitude  of  putting  the  heavy  box  into 
Adrian  Ducie's  grasp  and  while  he  mechanically 
held  it  she  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  wild  and  dilated, 
shining  full  of  moonlight,  still  exclaiming  half  in 
sobs,  half  in  screams,  "I  have  found  it!  I  have 
found  it! — the  Duciehurst  treasure." 

Floyd-Rosney  cast  upon  the  casket  one  glance  of 
undisciplined  curiosity.  Then  his  proclivity  for  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        173 

first  place,  the  title  role,  asserted  itself.  He  did 
not  understand  his  wife.  He  did  not  believe  that 
she  had  found  aught  of  value,  or,  indeed,  that  there 
was  aught  of  value  to  find.  Beyond  and  above  his 
revolt  of  credulity  was  his  amazement  at  his  wife's 
insurgent  spirit,  so  signally,  so  unprecedentedly 
manifested  on  this  trip.  He  connected  it  with  the 
presence  of  Adrian  Ducie,  which  in  point  of  facial 
association  was  the  presence  of  his  twin  brother, 
her  former  lover.  The  mere  surmise  filled  him  with 
absolute  rage.  His  tyrannous  impulse  burned  at  a 
white  heat.  A  wiser  man,  not  to  say  a  better  man, 
would  have  realized  the  transient  character  of  the 
incident,  her  natural  instinct  to  assert  herself,  to  be 
solicitous  of  the  judgment  of  the  Ducies  on  her 
position,  to  seem  no  subservient  parasite  of  the  rich 
man,  but  to  hold  herself  high.  Thus  she  had  re 
sented  too  late  the  absolute  dominion  her  husband 
had  taken  over  her,  and  she  felt  none  the  lack  of 
the  manner  of  consideration,  even  though  fictitious, 
which  was  her  due  as  his  wife. 

He  took  her  arm  that  was  as  tense  as  steel  in 
every  muscle.  "You  are  overwrought,  Paula, — and 
this  disturbance  is  highly  unseemly."  Then,  lower 
ing  his  voice  and  with  his  frequent  trick  of  speaking 
from  between  his  set  teeth,  "you  should  be  with  the 
other  ladies,  instead  of  the  only  one  among  this  gang 
of  men." 

"Why  not?"  she  flared  out  at  full  voice,  "we  don't 
live  in  Turkey." 

"By  your  leave  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  to 
witness  the  opening  of  this  box,  which  she  has  dis 
covered,"  said  Ducie  gravely,  "and  you  also  in 


174        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

view  of  your  position  in  regard  to  the  title  of  the 
property." 

"Certainly  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  de 
fiantly  forestalling  her  husband's  reply,  "by  his 
leave,  or  without  it.  I  am  no  bond-slave."  Her 
eyes  were  flashing,  her  bosom  heaved,  she  was  on 
the  brink  of  tears. 

"Beg  pardon,"  stammered  Ducie.  "It  was  a 
mere  phrase." 

"Foolish  fellow!  He  thought  you  had  promised 
to  love,  honor  and  obey!"  said  Floyd-Rosney,  ill- 
advised  and  out  of  countenance. 

"Foolish  fellow!"  she  echoed.  "He  thought  you 
had  promised  to  love,  honor  and  cherish." 

But  she  was  dominated  by  the  excitement  of  the 
discovery.  She  ran  to  the  door  of  the  ladies'  dor 
mitory.  "No  danger!  No  danger!"  she  cried,  as 
it  was  cautiously  set  ajar  on  her  summons.  "The 
robbers  are  gone.  We  have  more  than  twice  as 
many  men  here,  and  the  Duciehurst  treasure  is 
found.  Come  out,  Hildegarde,  and  give  me  that 
lamp.  They  are  going  to  open  the  box.  Oh,  oh, 
oh !"  She  was  shrilling  aloud  in  mingled  delight  and 
agitation  as  she  came  running  down  the  hall  in  the 
midst  of  the  silvery  moonlight  and  the  dusky 
shadows,  the  wind  tossing  her  white  skirt,  the  lamp 
in  her  hand  glowing  yellow,  and  flaring  redly  out 
of  the  chimney  in  her  speed,  to  its  imminent  danger 
of  fracture,  sending  a  long  coil  of  smoke  floating 
after  it  and  a  suffocating  odor  of  petroleum. 

Paula  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table  in  the  dining- 
room,  where  the  box  already  stood.  Around  it  the 
men  were  grouped  on  the  boards  which  had  hitherto 
served  as  benches.  Several  were  shivering  in  shirt- 


THE    STORY    OP   DUCIEHURST        175 

sleeves,  the  suspenders  of  their  trousers  swinging  in 
festoons  on  either  side,  or  hanging  sash-wise  to  their 
heels.  Others,  more  provident,  with  the  conviction 
that  the  sensation  was  not  so  ephemeral  as  to  pre 
clude  some  attention  to  comfort,  left  the  scene  long 
enough  to  secure  their  coats,  and  came  back  with 
distorted  necks  and  craned  chins,  buttoning  on  col 
lars.  Hildegarde  obviously  had  no  vague  intention 
of  matching  her  conduct  to  the  standards  of  Turkey, 
for  she  joined  the  party  precipitately,  her  blue  eyes 
shining,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  recent  sleep,  her 
hair  still  piled  high  on  her  head  and  her  light  blue 
crepe  dress  hastily  donned.  The  elderly  ladies, 
mindful  of  the  jeopardy  of  neuralgia  in  the  draughty 
spaces  without,  had  betaken  themselves  again  to  bed. 
The  Duciehurst  treasure  had  no  possibilities  for 
their  betterment  and  they  did  not  even  affect  the 
general  altruistic  interest. 

There  was  ample  time  for  the  assembling  of  the 
party  for  no  key  among  them  would  fit  or  turn 
the  rusted  lock.  The  box  on  the  table  held  its 
secret  as  securely  within  arm's  length  as  when  hidden 
for  more  than  forty  years  in  the  capital  of  the 
pilaster.  Hildegarde  suggested  a  button-hook, 
which,  intended  seriously,  was  passed  as  an  ill-timed 
jest.  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  had  a  strong  clasp-knife, 
with  a  file,  but  the  lock  resisted  and  the  lid  was  of 
such  a  shape  that  the  implement  could  not  be  brought 
to  bear. 

"The  robbers  were  working  with  a  lot  of  tools," 
said  Paula,  suddenly.  "Perhaps  they  left  their 
tools." 

The  gentleman  who  was  testing  his  craft  with 


176       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

the  lock  looked  up  at  her  with  a  significant,  doubtful 
inquiry.  "The  robbers?"  he  drawled,  slightingly. 

They  possibly  number  thousands  in  this  wicked 
world.  Their  deeds  have  filled  many  court  records, 
and  their  reluctant  carcasses  many  a  prison.  But 
the  man  does  not  live  who  credits  their  proximity 
on  the  faith  of  a  woman's  statement.  "The  rob 
bers?"  he  drew  in  his  lower  lip  humorously.  "Where 
do  you  think  they  were  working?" 

"Come,  I  can  show  you  exactly."  Paula  sprang 
up  with  alacrity. 

He  rose  without  hesitation,  but  he  took  his  re 
volver  from  the  table  and  thrust  it  into  his  pistol- 
pocket.  While  he  did  not  believe  her,  perhaps  he 
thought  that  stranger  things  have  happened.  They 
did  not  carry  the  lamp.  The  moon's  radiance  poured 
through  all  the  shattered  windows  of  the  great  ruin 
with  a  splendor  that  seemed  a  mockery  of  the  im 
posing  proportions,  the  despoiled  decorations,  the 
lavish  designs  of  the  fresco,  the  poor  travesties  of 
chandeliers,  making  shift  here  and  there  to  return 
a  crystal  reflection  where  once  light  had  glowed 
refulgent. 

Floyd-Rosney  had  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if 
dumfounded.  Then  he  slowly  and  uncertainly 
threw  his  legs  athwart  the  bench  and  rose  as  if  to 
follow.  But  the  two  had  returned  before  he  could 
leave  the  room,  the  "doubting  Thomas"  of  an  ex 
plorer  with  his  hands  full  of  tools  and  an  expression 
of  blank  amazement  on  his  face. 

"Somebody  has  been  working  at  that  wall,"  he 
announced,  as  if  he  could  scarcely  constrain  his  own 
acceptance  of  the  fact.  "The  wainscot  has  been 
freshly  ripped  out,  but  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        177 

hollow  of  the  pilaster.  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  exam 
ined  it  herself." 

uYou  were  looking  for  another  find,  eh? — like  a 
cat  watching  a  hole  where  she  has  just  caught  a 
mouse,"  said  Floyd-Rosney  to  his  wife  with  his  mis 
fit  jocularity. 

No  one  sought  to  reply.  Every  eye  was  on 
Adrian  Ducie,  who  had  found  a  cold  chisel  among 
the  tools  and  was  working  now  at  the  hinges  and 
now  at  the  lock,  wherever  there  seemed  best  promise 
of  entrance.  The  hinges  were  forced  apart  finally, 
the  lock  was  broken,  and  once  more  the  box  was 
opened  here  where  it  was  packed  forty-odd  years 
ago.  A  covering  of  chamois  lay  over  the  top,  and 
as  Adrian  Ducie  put  it  aside  with  trembling  fingers 
the  lamplight  gloated  down  on  a  responsive  glitter 
of  gold  and  silver,  with  a  glint  here  and  there,  as 
of  a  precious  stone.  There  was  obviously  insuffi 
cient  room  in  the  box  for  the  vanished  table  service 
of  the  family  silver,  but  several  odd  pieces  of  such 
usage  were  crowded  in,  of  special  antiquity  of  aspect, 
probably  heirlooms,  and  thus  saved  at  all  hazards. 
The  method  of  packing  had  utilized  the  space  within 
to  the  fraction  of  an  inch.  Adrian  drew  out  a 
massive  gold  goblet  filled  with  a  medley  of  smaller 
articles,  a  rare  cameo  bracelet,  an  emerald  ring,  an 
old  seal  quaintly  mounted,  a  child's  sleeve-bracelets, 
a  simple  ornament  set  with  turquoise,  and  a  diamond 
necklace,  fit  for  a  princess.  None  of  these  were  in 
cases,  even  the  protection  of  a  wrapping  would 
have  required  more  space  than  could  be  spared. 

"You  know  that  face?"  Ducie  demanded,  holding 
a  miniature  out  to  Floyd-Rosney,  catching  the  lamp 
light  upon  it. 


178        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"Can't  say  I  do,"  Floyd-Rosney  responded,  cav 
alierly  and  with  apparent  indifference. 

"Perhaps  Colonel  Kenwynton  will  recognize  it," 
said  Ducie,  with  composure. 

"Eh,  what?  Why  certainly — a  likeness  of  your 
grandfather,  George  Blewitt  Ducie, — an  excellent 
likeness!  And  this,"  reaching  for  a  small  oval  por 
trait  set  with  pearls,  "is  his  wife — what  a  beauty 
she  was!  Here,  too,"  handling  a  gold  frame  of 
more  antiquated  aspect,  "is  your  great  grandfather 
— yes,  yes ! — in  his  prime.  I  never  saw  him  except 
as  an  old  man,  but  he  held  his  own — he  held  his 
own!" 

The  miniatures  thus  identified  and  his  right  to  the 
contents  of  the  box  established,  Ducie  continued  to 
lift  out  the  jammed  and  wedged  treasures  as  fast  as 
they  could  be  disengaged  from  their  artful  arrange 
ment.  An  old  silver  porringer  contained  incongrui 
ties  of  value,  a  silver  mug  of  christening  sugges 
tions,  a  lady's  watch  and  chain  with  a  bunch  of 
jeweled  jangling  "charms,"  a  filagree  pouncet-box, 
a  gold  thimble,  a  string  of  fine  and  perfect  pearls 
with  a  ruby  clasp,  a  gold  snuff-box  with  an  enameled 
lid.  The  up-to-date  man  thrust  his  monocle  in  his 
eye  to  better  observe,  with  a  sort  of  aesthetic  rap 
ture,  the  shepherds  dancing  in  the  dainty  workman 
ship.  There  was  an  array  of  spoons  of  many  sorts 
and  uses,  soup  ladles,  salt  ladles,  cream  ladles,  and 
several  gold  and  silver  platters.  These  had  kept 
in  place  one  of  the  old-fashioned  silver  coasters, 
which  held  contents  of  value  that  the  least  aesthetic 
could  appreciate.  It  was  nearly  half  full  of  gold 
coin,  worth  many  times  its  face  value  in  the  days 
when  thus  hidden  away  from  the  guerrilla  and  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        179 

bushwhacker.  Every  man's  eyes  glittered  at  the 
sight  except  only  those  of  Ducie.  He  was  intent 
upon  the  search  for  the  papers,  the  release  of  the 
mortgage  that  he  had  believed  all  his  life  was  stowed 
away  here. 

To  every  man  the  knowledge  that  he  has  been  be 
fooled,  whether  by  foible  or  fate,  is  of  vital  im 
portance.  In  many  ways  he  has  been  influenced  to 
his  hurt  by  the  obsession.  His  actions  bave  been 
rooted  in  his  mistaken  persuasions.  His  mental  proc 
esses  issue  from  false  premises.  He  is  not  the  man 
he  would  otherwise  have  been. 

All  his  life  Adrian  Ducie  had  raged  against  the 
injustice  that  had  involved  in  absolute  oblivion  the 
release  of  the  mortgage,  that  had  wrested  from  his 
father  both  the  full  satisfaction  of  the  debt  and  the 
pledged  estate  as  well.  Otherwise  he  would  have 
inherited  wealth,  opportunity,  the  means  of  advance 
ment,  luxury,  pleasure.  He  was  asking  himself  now 
had  he  made  less  of  himself,  the  actual  good  the 
gods  had  doled  out,  because  he  had  bemoaned  ficti 
tious  values  in  case  there  had  never  been  a  release 
and  the  lands  had  gone  the  facile  ways  of  fore 
closure,  the  imminent,  obvious,  almost  invariable 
sequence  of  mortgage.  Ah,  at  last  a  paper  I — care 
fully  folded,  indorsed.  His  grandfather's  will,  regu 
larly  executed,  but  worthless  now,  by  reason  of  the 
lapse  of  time.  An  administrator  had  distributed  the 
estate  as  that  of  an  intestate,  and  defended  the  action 
of  foreclosure.  The  incident  was  closed,  and  the  sere 
and  yellow  paper  had  not  more  possibility  of  revivi 
fication  than  the  sere  and  yellow  leaves  that  now  and 
again  came  with  sibilant  edge  against  the  window- 


180        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

pane,  or  winged  their  way  on  an  errant  gust  within 
the  room  through  a  rift  in  the  shattered  glass. 

As  Ducie  flung  the  paper  aside  he  chanced  to  dis 
lodge  one  of  the  gold  pieces,  a  sovereign,  the  money 
being  all  of  English  coinage.  It  rolled  swiftly  along 
the  table,  slipped  off  its  beveled  edge,  and  was  heard 
spinning  somewhere  in  the  shadows  of  the  great 
dusky  room.  More  than  one  of  the  gentlemen 
rose  to  recover  it,  and  Paula,  with  unbecoming 
officiousness,  her  husband  thought,  joined  in  the 
search.  It  was  she  who  secured  it,  and  as  she  re 
stored  the  coin  she  laid  a  glittering  trifle  before  the 
box,  as  if  it,  too,  had  fallen  from  the  table.  "Here 
is  one  of  the  Ducie  jewels,"  she  said. 

"Why,  it  is  a  key,  how  cute,"  cried  Hildegarde. 

Ducie  had  paused,  the  papers  motionless  in  his 
hand.  He  was  looking  at  Paula,  sternly,  rebuk- 
ingly.  Perhaps  his  expression  disconcerted  her  in 
her  moment  of  triumph,  for  her  voice  was  a  little 
shrill,  her  smile  both  feigned  and  false,  her  man 
ner  nervous  and  abashed,  yet  determined. 

"Oh,  it  is  a  thing  of  mystic  powers,"  she  declared. 
"It  commands  the  doors  of  promotion  and  pleasure, 
it  can  open  the  heart  and  lock  it,  too;  it  is  the  key 
note  of  happiness."  She  laughed  without  relish  at 
the  pun  while  the  up-to-date  man  thrust  his  monocle 
in  his  eye  and  reached  out  for  the  bauble.  There 
was  a  moment  of  silence  as  it  was  subjected  to  his 
searching  scrutiny. 

"A  thing  of  legend,  is  it?"  he  commented.  "Well, 
I  must  say  that  it  does  not  justify  its  reputation — 
it  has  a  most  flimsy  and  modern  aspect,  nothing 
whatever  in  conformity  with  those  exquisite  examples 
of  old  bijouterie."  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        181 

Dude  jewels  blazing  in  rainbow  hues,  now  laid  to 
gether  in  a  heap  on  the  table.  "Its  value,  why  I 
should  say  it  could  not  be  much,  though  this  is  a 
good  white  diamond,  and  the  rubies  are  fair,  but 
quite  small;  it  is  not  worth  more  than  two  hundred 
dollars  or  two  hundred  and  fifty  at  the  utmost." 

Adrian  Ducie  had  finally  remitted  his  steady  and 
upbraiding  gaze,  but  Paula  was  made  aware  that 
he  still  resented  unalterably  and  deeply  her  conduct 
to  his  brother.  It  was  Randal's  option  to  forgive, 
if  he  would, — Adrian  Ducie  held  himself  aloof;  he 
would  not  interfere.  His  hands  were  occupied  in 
opening  a  paper  as  the  up-to-date  man  tendered  him 
the  jeweled  key,  and  this  gave  him  the  opportunity 
to  decline  to  receive  it  without  exciting  curiosity. 
His  words  were  significant  only  to  Paula  when  he 
said,  "Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney;  perhaps,  will 
kindly  take  charge  of  this  article." 

With  unabated  composure,  with  extreme  delib 
eration,  he  opened  this,  the  last  paper  in  the  box, 
which  held  an  enclosure.  The  yellow  glow  of  the 
lamp  at  one  end  of  the  table  was  a  rayonnant  focus 
of  light  amidst  the  gloom  of  the  great,  lofty  apart 
ment,  and  showed  the  variant  expressions  of  the 
faces  grouped  about  it.  Floyd-Rosney,  seated  with 
one  side  toward  the  table,  resting  an  elbow  on  its 
surface,  had  an  air  of  tolerant  ennui,  his  handsome 
face,  fair,  florid,  and  impressive,  was  imposed  with 
its  wonted  fine  effect  against  the  dun,  dull  shadows 
which  the  lamplight  could  not  dissipate,  so  definite 
that  they  seemed  an  opaque  haze,  a  dense  veil  of 
smoke.  The  countenances  of  the  others,  less  con 
scious,  less  adjusted  to  observation,  wore  different 
degrees  of  intelligent  interest.  Hildegarde's  dis- 


182        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

heveled  beauty  shone  like  a  star  from  the  dark  back 
ground  of  the  big  bow-window  where  she  sat — 
through  the  shattered  glass  came  now  and  then  a 
glittering  shimmer  when  the  magnolia  leaves,  drip 
ping  and  lustrous  in  the  moonlight,  tossed  in  some 
vagrant  gust.  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  aspect  was  of 
a  conventional  contrast,  as  point-device  as  if  she 
sat  at  table  at  some  ordinary  function.  The  sheen 
of  her  golden  hair,  the  gleam  of  her  white  dress, 
her  carmine  cheeks,  her  elated  and  brilliant  eyes, 
her  attentive  observation  of  the  events  as  they  de 
ployed,  were  all  noted  in  turn  by  her  domestic  tyrant, 
with  a  view  to  future  reference.  "I'll  have  it  out 
with  Paula  when  we  get  away  from  here,  if  ever,'* 
he  said  grimly  within  his  own  consciousness. 

The  next  moment  he  had  incentive  for  other 
thoughts.  Ducie  scanned  the  caption  of  the  paper 
in  his  hand,  turned  the  page  to  observe  its  signature, 
then  lifted  his  head.  His  voice,  although  clear, 
trembled. 

"Here  is  the  release  of  the  mortgage,  duly  exe 
cuted  and  with  the  original  deed  of  trust  inclosed." 

There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence.  Then  en 
sued  a  hearty  clapping  of  hands  about  the  table. 

Floyd-Rosney  satirically  inclined  his  head  to  this 
outburst  of  involuntary  congratulation.  "Thank 
you,  very  much,"  he  said  with  an  ironical  smile. 

The  group  seemed  somewhat  disconcerted,  and 
several  attempted  justification. 

"Always  gratifying  that  the  lost  should  be  found," 
said  one.  "Nothing  personal  to  you,  however." 

"I  am  sure  you,  too,  would  wish  the  right  to  pre 
vail,"  said  a  priggish  gentleman,  who  looked  as  if 
he  might  be  a  Sunday-school  superintendent. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        183 

"Well,  I  hate  to  see  an  old  family  kept  out  of  its 
own  on  a  legal  quibble,"  said  one  fat  gentleman 
uncompromisingly;  he  knew  better  how  to  order  a 
dinner  acceptably  than  his  discourse. 

"It  will  be  difficult  to  prove  an  ouster  after  forty 
years  of  adverse  possession,"  said  Floyd-Rosney, 
"even  if  the  release  or  quit-claim,  or  whatever  the 
paper  is,  shall  prove  to  be  entirely  regular." 

"You  surely  will  not  plead  the  prescription  in  bar 
of  the  right,"  the  broker  seemed  to  remonstrate. 

"Of  the  remedy,  you  mean,"  Floyd-Rosney  cor 
rected  with  his  suave,  unsmiling  smile.  "I  should, 
like  any  other  man  of  affairs,  act  under  the  advice 
of  counsel." 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  assented  the  broker,  ac 
cessible  to  this  kind  of  commercial  logic.  However, 
the  situation  was  so  contrary  to  the  general  run  of 
business  that  it  seemed  iniquitous  somehow  that  the 
discovery  of  the  papers  restoring  the  title  of  this 
great  estate  to  its  rightful  owners,  after  forty  years 
of  deprivation  of  its  values,  should  be  at  last  nulli 
fied  arid  set  at  naught  by  a  decree  of  a  court  on  the 
application  of  the  doctrine  of  the  statute  of  limita 
tions.  There  was  a  pervasive  apprehension  of 
baffled  justice  even  before  the  paper  was  examined. 

Ducie  was  disposed  to  incur  no  further  Floyd- 
Rosney's  supercilious  speculations  as  to  the  contents 
of  the  paper.  Instead,  he  spread  it  before  Colonel 
Kenwynton. 

"Read  it,  Colonel,"  he  said,  moving  the  lamp  to 
the  old  gentleman's  elbow. 

It  seemed  that  Colonel  Kenwynton  in  his  excite 
ment  could  never  get  his  pince-nez  adjusted,  and 
when  this  was  fairly  accomplished  that  he  would 


184        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

be  balked  at  last  by  an  inopportune  frog  in  his 
throat.  But  finally  the  reading  was  under  way,  and 
each  of  the  listeners  lent  ear  not  only  with  the  effort 
to  discriminate  and  assimilate  the  intendment  of  the 
instrument,  but  to  appraise  its  effect  on  a  possible 
court  of  equity.  For  it  particularized  in  very  elab 
orate  and  comprehensive  phrase  the  reasons  for  the 
manner,  time,  and  place  of  its  execution.  It  recited 
the  facts  that  the  promissory  notes  secured  by  the 
mortgage  were  in  bank  deposit  in  the  city  of  Nash 
ville,  State  of  Tennessee,  that  the  said  city  and  State 
were  in  the  occupation  of  the  Federal  army,  that 
since  the  said  notes  could  not  be  forwarded  within 
the  Confederate  lines,  by  reason  of  the  lack  of  mail 
facilities  or  other  means  of  communication,  the  said 
promissory  notes  were  herein  particularly  described, 
released  and  surrendered,  the  several  sums  for  which 
they  were  made  having  been  paid  in  full  by  George 
Blewitt  Ducie  in  gold,  the  receipt  of  the  full  amount 
being  hereby  acknowledged,  together  with  a  quit 
claim  to  the  property  on  which  they  had  been  se 
cured.  For  the  same  reason  of  the  existence  of  a 
state  of  war,  and  the  suspension  of  all  courts  of  jus 
tice  in  the  county  in  which  the  mortgage  was  re 
corded,  and  the  absence  of  their  officials,  this  re 
lease  could  not  at  that  time  be  duly  registered  nor 
the  original  paper  marked  satisfied.  Therefore  the 
party  of  the  first  part  hereunto  appeared  before  a 
local  notary-public  and  acknowledged  the  execution 
of  this  paper  for  the  purposes  therein  contained, 
the  reasons  for  its  non-registration,  and  the  lack  of 
the  return  of  the  promissory  notes. 

Colonel    Kenwynton   took    careful   heed   of    the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        185 

notarial  seal  affixed,  and  the  names  of  five  witnesses 
who  subscribed  for  added  security. 

"Every  man  of  them  dead  these  forty-odd  years 
and  both  the  principals,"  he  commented,  lugubri 
ously. 

"Great  period  for  mortality,  the  late  unpleasant 
ness,"  jeered  Floyd-Rosney.  With  a  debonair  man 
ner  he  was  lighting  a  cigar,  and  he  held  it  up  with 
an  inquiring  smile  at  the  tousled  Hildegarde  on  the 
sill  of  the  bow-window,  her  dilated  blue  eyes  ab 
sorbed  and  expressive  as  she  listened.  She  gave  him 
a  hasty  and  transient  glance  of  permission  to  smoke 
in  her  presence  and  once  more  lapsed  into  deep  grav 
ity  and  brooding  attention. 

The  incident  was  an  apt  example  of  the  power 
of  Fate.  With  the  best  mutual  faith,  with  one  mind 
and  intention  on  the  part  of  both  principals  in  the 
procedure,  with  every  precaution  that  the  circum 
stances  would  admit,  with  the  return  of  the  original 
deed  of  trust,  with  a  multiplicity  of  witnesses  to  the 
execution  of  the  quit-claim  and  release,  which  would 
seem  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  misadventure,  the 
whole  was  nullified  by  the  perverse  sequence  of 
events.  The  papers  were  lost,  and  not  one  human 
being  participating  in  the  transaction  remained  to 
tell  the  tale.  The  solemn  farce  of  the  processes  of 
the  courts  was  enacted,  as  if  the  debt  was  still  un 
satisfied,  and  the  rightful  owner  was  ejected  from 
the  lands  of  his  ancestors. 

"But  for  the  casual  recollection  of  your  father, 
Julian  Ducie,  who  was  a  child  at  the  time  his  mother 
quitted  Duciehurst,  and  this  box  of  valuables  was 
hidden  here  to  await  her  return,  there  would  not 
have  been  so  much  as  a  tradition  of  the  satisfaction 


186        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

of  this  mortgage,"  Colonel  Kenwynton  remarked  in 
a  sort  of  dismay. 

•"I  have  often  heard  my  father  describe  the  events 
of  that  night,  the  examination  of  my  grandfather's 
desk  by  my  Uncle  Archie  and  Captain  Treherne, 
and  their  discussion  of  the  relative  importance  of 
the  papers  and  valuables  they  selected  and  packed 
in  this  box;  one  of  the  papers  they  declared  was  in 
effect  the  title  to  the  whole  property.  He  was  a 
little  fellow  at  the  time,  and  watched  and  listened 
with  all  a  child's  curiosity.  But  he  did  not  know 
where  they  hid  the  box  at  last,  although  he  was 
aware  of  their  purpose  of  concealment,  and,  indeed, 
he  was  not  certain  that  it  was  not  carried  off  with 
the  party  finally  to  Arkansas,  his  uncle,  Archie,  and 
Captain  Hugh  Treherne  rowing  the  skiff  in  which 
he  and  his  mother  crossed  to  the  other  side." 

uAh-h,  Captain  Hugh  Treherne" — Colonel  Ken 
wynton  echoed  the  name  with  a  bated  voice  and  a 
strange  emphasis.  He  had  a  fleeting  vision  of  that 
wild  night  on  the  sand-bar,  all  a  confused  effect  of 
mighty  motion,  the  rush  of  the  wind,  the  rout  of 
the  stormy  clouds,  the  race  of  the  surging  river,  and 
overhead  a  swift  skulking  moon,  a  fugitive,  furtive 
thing,  behind  the  shattered  cumulose  densities  of 
the  sky.  He  started  to  speak,  then  desisted.  It 
was  strange  to  be  conjured  so  earnestly  to  right  this 
wrong,  to  find  this  treasure,  to  visit  this  spot,  and 
within  forty-eight  hours  in  the  jugglery  of  chance 
to  be  transported  hither  and  the  discovery  accom 
plished  through  no  agency  of  his,  no  revelation  of 
the  secret  he  had  promised  to  keep. 

"Yes,  Captain  Hugh  Treherne,"  assented  Ducie. 
"He  was  known  to  have  been  severely  wounded  to- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        187 

ward  the  end  of  the  war,  and  as  he  could  never 
afterward  be  located  it  is  supposed  he  died  of  his 
injuries.  Every  effort  to  find  him  was  made  to  se 
cure  his  testimony  in  the  action  for  the  foreclosure 
of  the  mortgage." 

"But  he  was  not  dead,"  said  Paula,  unexpectedly. 
"  'Captain  Treherne,'  that's  the  very  name." 

"Why,  Paula,"  exclaimed  Floyd-Rosney,  astound 
ed.  "What  do  you  mean?  You  know  absolutely 
nothing  of  the  matter." 

"The  robbers  spoke  of  him,"  she  said,  confusedly. 
"I  overheard  them."  Then  with  more  assurance: 
"They  derived  their  information  from  him  as  to  the 
hiding-place.  That's  how  I  found  it  out.  Not  that 
he  disclosed  it  intentionally.  They  spoke  as  if — as 
if  he  were  not  altogether  sane.  They  said  that  he 
could  not  remember.  But  in  his  sleep  he  talked 
'as  straight  as  a  string.'  ' 

"Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense !  You  heard  no  such 
thing!"  exclaimed  Floyd-Rosney.  "You  are  as 
crazy  as  he  can  possibly  be." 

The  ridicule  stimulated  self-justification,  even 
while  it  abashed  her,  for  every  eye  was  fixed  upon 
her.  Colonel  Kenwynton  looked  at  once  eager, 
anxious,  yet  wincing,  as  one  who  shrinks  from  a 
knife. 

"They  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  his 
sleeping  words,"  Paula  persisted.  "He  spoke  of 
pillar  and  base  and  pilaster  and  capital " 

"Oh,  oh,"  exclaimed  Floyd-Rosney,  in  derision. 

Paula  had  the  concentrated  look  of  seeking  to 
shake  off  this  embarrassment  of  her  mental  progress 
and  to  keep  straight  upon  a  definite  trend.  "They 
spoke,  indeed,  as  if  they  had  Captain  Treherne  in 


188        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

reach  somewhere, — I  wish  I  had  remembered  to 
mention  this  earlier, — as  if  he  were  to  be  forced  to 
further  disclosures  if  they  should  fail  to  find  the 
treasure." 

"Oh,  this  is  too  preposterous,"  cried  Floyd-Ros- 
ney,  rising.  He  threw  away  the  stump  of  his  cigar 
into  the  old  and  broken  fireplace.  "I  must  beg  of 
you,  Paula,  for  my  credit  if  not  your  own,  to  desist 
from  making  a  spectacle  of  yourself." 

Colonel  Kenwynton  lifted  a  wrinkled  and  trem 
bling  hand  in  protest.  "I  ask  your  pardon;  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney  will  do  no  one  discredit.  I  must  hear 
what  she  has  to  say  of  this.  The  gentleman  is  my 
dear,  dear  friend.  I  had  lost  sight  of  him  for 
years."  Then  turning  toward  Paula:  "Did  I  un 
derstand  you  to  say,  madam,  that  they  spoke  as  if 
he  were  in  their  power?" 

The  old  man  was  gasping  and  his  agitation 
frightened  Paula.  Her  face  had  grown  ghastly 
pale.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and  startled.  "I  wonder 
that  I  did  not  think  of  it  earlier,"  she  said,  con 
tritely.  "But  it  did  not  impress  me  as  real,  as  the 
actual  fact,  I  was  so  excited  and  alarmed.  I  re 
member  now  that  they  said  they  had  gagged  him, — • 
I  don't  know  where  he  was,  but  they  spoke  as  if  he 
were  near  and  they  could  produce  him  and  force 
him  to  point  out  the  spot.  They  had  'brought  him 
down,' — that  was  their  expression, — for  this  pur 
pose.  Did  they  mean, — do  you  suppose, — he  could 
have  been  near,  in  this  house?" 

Colonel  Kenwynton  rose,  the  picture  of  despair. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  exclaimed,  holding  up  his 
hands  and  wringing  them  hard.  "That  man  saved 
my  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own.  And  if,  by  blindness 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST         189 

and  folly,  I  have  failed  him  at  his  utmost  need, 
may  God  do  as  much  to  me  and  more  when  I  call 
from  out  of  the  deep.  The  lamp !  The  lamp  I 
Bring  the  lamp!  Search  the  house — the  grounds!" 
Captain  Treherne  had  endured  many  hours  of 
duress,  of  the  torture  of  bonds  and  constraint,  of 
dread,  of  cold,  of  hunger,  but  the  terror  of  ulti 
mate  doom  filled  his  heart  when  he  heard  the  ap 
proach  of  roving  footsteps,  the  sound  of  voices  un 
naturally  loud  and  resonant,  echoing  through  the 
bare  rooms,  when  he  saw  a  flickering  glimmer  of 
yellow  light  wavering  on  the  ceiling  but  lost  pres 
ently  in  gloom  as  the  party  wandered  hither  and 
thither  through  the  vacant  place.  The  miscreants 
who  had  overpowered  and  bound  him  were  return 
ing,  he  thought.  In  the  impaired  mental  condition 
from  which  he  had  so  long  suffered,  one  of  his 
great  sorrows  lay  in  his  incapacity  at  times  to  differ 
entiate  the  fact  from  hallucination.  He  could  not 
be  sure  that  the  whole  scene  of  ghastly  violence 
through  which  he  had  passed  was  not  one  of  the 
pitiable  illusions  of  his  mania,  and  he  lay  here  bound 
and  gagged  and  famished  as  treatment  designed  to 
mend  his  mental  health.  He  sought  to  recall  the 
aspect  of  the  men  who,  as  perhaps  he  fancied  had 
brought  him  here, — his  flesh  crept  with  repulsion  at 
the  thought  of  them.  One  had  the  rolling  walk 
of  a  sailor.  Another  was  garbed  like  a  jockey, — 
some  brain-cell  had  perchance  retained  this  image 
from  the  old  half-forgotten  associations  of  the  race 
course.  So  much  of  the  jargon  of  pathology  he  had 
picked  up  in  his  melancholy  immurement  in  the  san 
atorium.  But  these  impressions  were  so  definite,  so 
lifelike  that  if  they  should  prove  illusory  and  this 


190        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

experience  another  seizure  of  his  malady  it  was 
worse  than  those  that  had  beset  him  hitherto,  when 
he  had  often  had  a  lurking  doubt  of  their  reality, 
even  while  he  had  acted  as  if  they  were  demonstra 
ble  fact.  It  was  a  terrible  thing  to  harbor  such 
strange  discordant  fancies.  He  remembered  that 
during  the  day,  he  could  not  be  sure  of  the  time, 
he  awoke  from  a  sleep  or  swoon  to  find  himself 
here  (or,  perchance,  he  had  dreamed),  bound  and 
gagged,  and  the  great  rough  figure  of  a  gigantic 
negro  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  room  gazing 
upon  him  with  an  expression  of  stupid  dismay,  and 
then  of  horrified  fright.  The  negro  disappeared 
suddenly, — many  of  the  images  present  to  the  dis 
eased  brain  of  Captain  Treherne  were  subject  to 
these  abrupt  withdrawals.  Afterward  he  saw,  or, 
as  he  stipulated  within  himself,  he  thought  he  saw, 
through  an  open  door,  this  swart  apparition  again, 
chasing  and  beating  with  a  boat-hook  a  large  white 
owl.  Now  and  then,  throughout  the  afternoon,  he 
imagined  he  heard  sounds,  faint,  distant;  footsteps, 
voices  and  again  silence.  Deep  into  the  weary  night 
the  hapless  prisoner  watched  the  moonlight  trace 
the  outline  of  the  leafless  vines  outside  upon  the 
ceiling  and  wall.  This  was  the  only  impression 
of  which  he  was  certain.  He  could  not  be  sure 
what  this  seeming  approach  might  mean;  whether  a 
fact,  direful  and  dangerous,  to  which  the  helpless 
must  needs  submit;  or  whether  a  fantasy  of  merely 
seeming  menace. 

Suddenly  a  voice — resonant,  yet  with  a  falling 
cadence;  hearty  and  whole-souled,  yet  quavering 
with  trouble.  "Hugh  Treherne  I  Hugh  Treherne  1" 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        191 

it  was  calling,  and  a  thousand  echoes  in  the  bare 
and  ruinous  building  duplicated  the  sound. 

A  rush  of  confidence  sent  the  blood  surging 
through  the  veins  of  Captain  Treherne,  almost  con 
gested  with  the  pressure  of  the  cords.  He  gave 
a  start  that  might  have  dislocated  every  bone  in 
his  body,  yet  the  bonds  held  fast.  He  could  not 
stir.  He  could  not  reply.  He  had  recognized  the 
voice  of  Colonel  Kenwynton,  his  old  commander, — 
he  felt  that  he  could  take  his  oath  to  the  reality 
of  this  fact.  There  were  other  voices, — many  foot 
falls;  it  was  a  searching  party  with  lights,  with 
arms, — he  heard  the  familiar  metallic  click  as  one 
of  the  men  cocked  a  revolver.  But  what  was  this? 
They  were  taking  the  wrong  turn  in  the  maze  of 
empty  apartments;  the  steps  of  their  progress  had 
begun  to  recede,  sounding  farther  and  farther  away; 
their  voices  died  in  the  distance;  the  light  had  faded 
from  the  wall. 

He  thought  afterward  that  in  the  intensity  of  his 
emotions  he  must  have  fainted.  There  was  a  long 
gap  in  his  consciousness.  Then  he  saw  a  well-re 
membered  face  bending  over  him,  but  oh,  so 
changed,  so  venerable.  He  knew  every  tone  of  the 
voice  calling  his  name,  amidst  sobs,  "Oh,  Hugh,  my 
dear,  dear  boy!"  He  felt  the  eager  hands  of 
younger,  strong  men  deftly  loosening  the  bonds, 
and  the  sound  of  their  voices  in  muttered  impreca 
tions,  not  loud  but  deep,  filled  him  with  a  surging 
sense  of  sweet  sympathy.  It  was  swearing,  doubt 
less,  but  the  sentiment  that  prompted  it  was  pious. 
It  is  not  of  record  that  the  good  Samaritan  swore 
at  the  thieves,  but  it  is  submitted  that,  in  the  fer 
vor  of  altruism,  he  might  have  done  so  with  great 


192        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

propriety.  Treherne  felt  the  taste  of  brandy  within 
his  aching  jaws.  These  profane  wights  were  lift 
ing  him  with  a  tenderness  that  might  have  befitted 
the  tendance  of  a  sick  infant.  He  could  not  re 
strain  the  tears  that  were  coursing  down  his  cheeks, 
although  he  had  no  grief, — he  was  glad, — glad !  for 
now  and  again  Colonel  Kenwynton  caught  his  hand 
in  his  cordial  grasp  and  pressed  it  to  his  breast. 


CHAPTER   X 

DAY  was  breaking.  The  luster  of  the  moon  had 
failed.  Gaunt  and  grisly  the  old  ruin  began  to  in 
crease  in  visibility.  The  full,  gray,  prosaic  light  em 
phasized  details,  whether  of  workmanship  or  wreck, 
which  the  silver  beams  had  been  inadequate  to  show. 
It  was  difficult  to  say  if  the  fine  points  of  ornamen 
tation  had  the  more  melancholy  suggestion  in  the 
wanton  spoliation  where  they  were  within  easy 
reach,  or  in  those  heights  and  sequestered  nooks 
where  distance  had  saved  them  from  the  hand  of 
the  vandal.  The  lapse  of  time  itself  had  wrought 
but  scant  deterioration.  The  tints  of  the  fresco 
of  ceilings  and  borders  were  of  pristine  delicacy  and 
freshness  in  those  rooms  where  the  destroyed 
hearths  had  prevented  fires  and  precluded  smoke, 
save  that  here  and  there  a  cobweb  had  veiled  a  cor 
ner,  or  a  space  had  gathered  mildew  from  exposure 
to  a  shattered  window,  or  a  trickling  leak  had  de 
lineated  the  trace  of  the  falling  drops  down  the  deco 
rated  wall. 

All  exemplified  the  taste  of  an  earlier  period,  and 
where  paper  had  been  used  in  great  pictorial  de 
signs  it  fared  more  hardly  than  had  the  painting. 
The  vicissitudes  of  the  voyage  of  Telemachus,  por 
trayed  in  the  hall,  were  supplemented  by  unwritten 
disaster.  His  bark  tossed  upon  seas  riven  in  gaps 
and  hanging  in  tatters.  The  pleasant  land  where 

193 


194        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

he  and  his  instructive  companion  met  the  Island 
goddess  and  her  train  of  nymphs,  laden  with  flowers 
and  fruit  for  their  delectation,  was  cataclysmal  with 
torrential  rains  and  broken  abysses.  The  filial  ad 
venturer  was  flung  from  the  storied  cliffs  into  a 
Nirvana  of  blank  plaster. 

It  had  required  some  muscular  force  and  some 
mental  energy  to  destroy  the  marble  mantelpieces. 
Here  and  there  bits  of  the  carving  still  lay  about 
the  floor,  the  design  thus  grossly  disfigured,  showing 
with  abashed  effect  above  the  gaping  cavity  of  the 
torn-out  hearth. 

The  up-to-date  man  with  his  glass  in  his  eye,  one 
hand  always  ready  to  readjust  it,  the  fingers  lightly 
slipped  into  the  pocket  of  his  trousers,  his  attitude 
a  trifle  canted  forward  after  the  manner  of  the 
critical  connoisseur,  was  going  about,  exploring,  dis 
criminating  and  bemoaning.  Now  and  again  he 
was  joined  by  one  of  his  fellow-passengers,  who 
stood  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
gazed  with  blank,  unresponsive  eyes,  and  listened 
in  uncomprehending  silence.  The  interior  decora 
tion  of  the  old  house  represented  several  periods. 
The  salient  fact  of  wreck  and  ruin  was  apparent, 
however,  to  the  most  limited  discernment,  and  the 
knots  of  refugees  from  the  Cherokee  Rose  discussed 
its  woeful  condition  as  they  wandered  restlessly 
about.  They  expressed  a  doubt  whether  repair 
would  not  cost  more  than  the  house  was  worth,  ar 
gued  on  the  legal  effect  of  the  belated  discovery  of 
the  quit-claim  papers,  and  contemned  the  spirit  of 
the  men  in  possession  in  the  last  forty  years  to  al 
low  so  fine  a  thing  in  itself  to  fall  into  such  a  des 
perate  condition,  while  the  lands  appurtenant  were 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        195 

worked  to  the  extremest  capacity  of  money-making. 
There  was  a  disposition  to  deduce  from  the  fact  a 
suspicion  on  the  part  of  the  holders  that  their  title 
was  vulnerable,  and  a  sordid  desire  to  make  the 
most  possible  out  of  the  property  while  it  was 
still  in  possession.  It  was  always  Floyd-Rosney's 
fate  to  be  in  a  measure  justified  of  circumstances, 
yet  to  seem  at  fault.  The  question  of  mesne  profits 
in  case  of  the  recovery  of  property  did  not  suggest 
itself  for  some  time,  and  when  it  did  arise  it  was 
submitted  that  mesne  profits  were  mighty  hard  to  get 
and  often  could  not  be  made  from  the  interloper. 

"They  can  make  the  money  out  of  Floyd-Rosney, 
though, — he  has  got  money  to  burn.  For  one,  I 
don't  care  if  he  does  lose.  It  would  be  outrageous 
for  him  to  defend  the  suit  for  recovery  and  plead 
the  statute  of  limitations,"  said  the  fat  man,  who 
did  not  mince  his  opinions. 

"But  he  may  win  out,"  said  the  broker.  "Posses 
sion  is  nine-tenths  of  the  law, — and  for  forty  years 
under  a  decree  of  the  Chancery  court." 

"Forty  thousand  years  would  do  him  no  good  in 
the  face  of  that  release,"  protested  another.  "It 
was  wrongful  possession  from  the  beginning.  Floyd- 
Rosney  is  a  trespasser  here  and  nothing  more." 

"But  can  you  call  a  man  a  'trespasser'  who  holds 
under  color  of  title?  His  is  an  adverse  possession," 
argued  the  broker. 

And  the  wrangle  began  anew  with  revived  spirit. 
It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  the  refugees  had  a  sub 
ject  of  discussion  so  charged  with  immediate  and 
general  interest,  since  they  had  no  resource  but  to 
roam  the  old  place  until  breakfast  should  be  an 
nounced.  After  this  meal  they  would  resume  their 


196        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

fitful  wanderings  till  a  boat  should  be  sighted.  They 
had  turned  out  of  their  comfortable  quarters  when 
Captain  Treherne  had  been  brought  to  the  restricted 
inhabited  space  of  the  old  building,  relinquishing 
the  shake-down  and  the  fire  to  him  and  his  special 
ministrants. 

Now  and  again  a  speculation  concerning  breakfast 
agitated  the  group  of  men,  and  one  venturesome 
spirit  made  a  journey  down  the  quaking  old  rear 
verandah  to  the  kitchen,  stepping  over  gaps  where 
the  flooring  had  been  torn  up  for  fuel  and  walking 
the  rotting  sills  when  the  hiatus  was  too  wide  to  be 
leaped.  His  errand  to  expedite  breakfast  was,  ap 
parently,  without  result. 

uYes,  sah,"  said  the  waiter-cook,  into  whose 
gloomy  soul  morning  had  yet  cast  no  illuminating 
ray.  "I  gwine  ter  dish  up  when  de  breakfast  is 
cooked, — nuver  knowed  you  wanted  it  raw.  Cap'n 
nuver  treated  me  right, — no  range,  no  cook-fixin's, 
— nuthin' — an'  breakfast  expected  to  be  smokin'  on 
de  table  'fore  de  fog  is  off  de  river.  Naw,  Sah, — 
ef  you  kin  cook  it  any  quicker,  why  cook  it  yourself, 
Sah.  /  ain't  got  no  dijections  to  your  cookin'  it." 

Upon  his  return  from  his  tour  of  discovery,  being 
earnestly  interrogated  as  to  the  prospects  by  his 
fellow-refugees,  the  gentleman  gave  this  sage  ad 
vice:  "If  you  don't  want  to  have  to  knock  an  im 
pudent  nigger  down  you  will  stay  here  and  eat  break 
fast  when  he  has  a  mind  to  serve  it." 

The  fog  clung  to  the  face  of  the  river.  It  stood 
blank  and  white  at  the  great  portal  of  the  house, 
and  sifted  through  the  shattered  windows,  and  silence 
dominated  it.  One  felt  infinitely  removed  from  all 
the  affairs  of  life*  The  world  was  not  even  a  neigh- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        197 

bor.  Time  seemed  annihilated.  It  could  not  be 
that  yesterday,  at  this  hour,  they  stood  on  the  stanch 
deck  of  the  Cherokee  Rose,  or  that  only  the  week 
before  they  trod  the  streets  of  Memphis,  or  Vicks- 
burg,  or  Helena.  That  white  pall  seemed  to  shut 
off  all  the  possibilities  of  life,  and  there  was  a 
sort  of  shock,  as  of  a  revulsion  of  nature,  when 
there  came  through  this  flocculent  density  the  sound 
of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  graveled  drive,  and  then, 
on  the  portico,  the  ponderous  measured  tread  of  a 
man  of  weight  and  bulk. 

He  was  in  the  hall  before  the  group  was  aware 
of  his  entrance.  Hale  and  strong,  although  of  ad 
vanced  years,  well  dressed  in  a  sober  fashion,  grave, 
circumspect,  reticent  of  manner,  he  had  turned 
toward  the  second  door  before  a  word  of  his  intent 
could  be  asked.  A  gesture  had  answered  his  in 
quiry  for  Captain  Hugh  Treherne.  He  entered, 
without  knocking,  and  the  door  closed  on  silence. 
The  group  in  the  hall  stared  at  one  another,  aware, 
in  some  subtle  way,  of  a  crisis  which  the  simple 
facts  did  not  explain. 

Suddenly  a  wild  cry  of  defiance  rose  from  within, 
— a  quivering,  aged  voice  full  of  rancor  and  of  rage. 

"I  will  resist  to  the  death, — begone,  begone,  sir, 
before  I  do  you  a  mischief." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Colonel  Kenwynton,  furious, 
fierce,  beyond  placation,  beyond  argument,  beyond 
self-control. 

A  murmur  of  remonstrance  rose  for  a  moment. 
Then  the  group  outside  followed  the  example  of 
the  stranger  and,  without  ceremony,  burst  in  at  the 
door. 

The  stranger  stood  in  quiet  composure  with  his 


198        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

back  to  the  fire  while  the  old  Colonel,  his  bushy 
white  eyebrows  bent  above  eyes  that  flashed  all  the 
lightnings  of  his  youth,  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
door,  exclaiming  with  an  intonation  of  contempt 
that  must  have  scathed  the  most  indurated  sensibili 
ties,  "Begone,  sir, — out  of  the  door,  if  you  like,  or 
I  will  throw  you  out  of  the  window."  He  stamped 
his  foot  as  if  to  intimidate  a  cur.  "Begone!  Rid 
us  of  your  intolerable  presence." 

Captain  Treherne,  who  had  lain  all  the  early 
morning  hours  on  the  rugs  and  blankets  on  the  floor, 
seeking  to  recuperate  from  his  terrible  experience 
of  constraint,  had  arisen  with  an  alertness  scarcely 
to  be  expected.  He  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  the 
old  man's  arm.  Colonel  Kenwynton  placed  his  own 
trembling  hand  over  it. 

"Captain  Treherne  is  among  his  friends  who  will 
revenge  it  dearly  if  you  attempt  the  least  injury. 
Insane  !  He  is  most  obviously,  most  absolutely  sane, 
and  on  that  fact  I  will  stake  my  soul's  salvation. 
Any  attempt  at  his  incarceration, — you  despicable 
trickster,  I  have  no  doubt  you  turn  your  penny  out 
of  this  burial  alive, — before  God,  sir,  I'll  make  you 
rue  it.  I  will  publish  you  throughout  the  length 
and  the  breadth  of  the  land,  and  I  will  beat  you  with 
this  stick  within  an  inch  of  your  life." 

He  brandished  his  heavy  cane,  and,  despite  his 
age  and  his  depleted  strength,  he  was  a  most  for 
midable  figure  as  he  advanced.  Once  more  Tre 
herne  caught  at  his  arm.  So  tense  were  its  muscles 
that  he  could  not  pull  it  down,  but  he  hung  upon  it 
with  all  his  weight. 

The  stranger  eyed  Colonel  Kenwynton  with  the 
utmost  calm,  a  placidity  devoid  alike  of  fear  and 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        199 

of  the  perception  of  offense.  He  spoke  in  a  quiet, 
level  tone,  with  an  undercurrent  of  gentle  urgency. 

"Sane  or  insane,  Hugh  Treherne  never  inten 
tionally  deceived  a  friend,"  he  remarked  composed 
ly.  "Tell  him  the  facts,  Captain  Treherne, — he 
deserves  to  know  them." 

He  met  at  the  moment  Treherne's  eye.  A  long 
look  passed  between  them, — a  terrible  look,  fraught 
with  some  deep  mystery,  of  ghastly  intendment, 
overwhelming,  significant,  common  to  both,  which 
neither  would  ever  reveal.  There  was  in  it  some 
thing  so  nerve-thrilling,  so  daunting,  that  Colonel 
Kenwynton's  bold,  bluff  spirit  revolted. 

"None  of  your  hypnotism  here!"  he  cried,  again 
brandishing  his  stick.  "I  will  not  stand  by  and  see 
you  seek  to  subjugate  this  man's  mind  with  your 
subtle  arts.  So  much  as  cast  your  evil  eye  upon  him 
again  and  I  will  make  you  swallow  a  pistol-ball 
and  call  it  piety.  (Where  is  that  damned  revolver 
of  mine?")  He  clapped  his  hand  vainly  to  his  pis 
tol-pocket. 

"Hugh,"  the  stranger's  tone  was  even  more 
gently  coercive  than  before.  "Tell  him,  Hugh.  He 
is  not  a  man  to  delude." 

"Colonel,"  cried  Treherne,  still  hanging  on  the 
old  man's  arm,  "this  gentleman  means  me  nothing 
but  kindness.  He  would  not, — he  could  not, — why, 
don't  you  know  he  was  a  surgeon  in  the  Stones' 
River  campaign?  For  old  sake's  sake  he  would  do 
me  no  harm." 

Colonel  Kenwynton  himself  looked  far  from  the 
normal,  his  white  hair  blowsing  about  his  face,  fiery 
red,  his  blue  eyes  blazing  with  a  bluer  flame,  his 


200        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

muscles  knotted  and  standing  out  as  he  clutched  his 
stick  and  brandished  it. 

[  don't  care  if  he  was  commander-in-chief,  he 
shall  not  mesmerize  you,  if  that  is  what  he  calls  his 
damnable  tricks.  Hugh, — forty  years!  Oh,  my 
dear  boy,  that  I  should  have  lost  sight  of  you  for 
forty  years,  what  with  my  debts,  and  my  worries,  and 
my  shifts  to  keep  a  whole  roof  over  my  head,  and 
a  whole  coat  on  my  back.  Forty  years, — I  thought 
you  were  dead.  I  had  been  told  you  were  dead, — 
that  is  your  Cousin  Thomas's  work, — I'll  haul  him 
over  the  coals.  And  you  as  sane  as  I  am  all  the 
time!  Begone,  sir!"  and  once  more  he  waved  his 
stick  at  the  stranger.  "I  will  see  to  it  that  every 
process  known  to  the  law  is  exhausted  on  you !  The 
vials  of  wrath  shall  be  emptied!  Oh,  it  is  too  late 
for  apology,  for  repentance,  for  sniveling!" 

For  still  the  stranger's  manner  was  mild  and 
gravely  conciliatory.  "Oh,  Hugh,"  he  said  re 
proachfully,  uwhy  don't  you  tell  him?" 

Once  more  their  glances  met. 

"Colonel,"  said  Treherne  falteringly,  "I  am  not 
sane.  I  admit  it." 

"I  know  better,"  Colonel  Kenwynton  vociferated, 
facing  around  upon  him.  "You  are  as  sane  as  I  am, 
as  any  man.  This  is  hypnotism.  I  saw  how  that 
fellow  looked  at  you.  I  marked  him  well.  Why, 
sanity  is  in  your  every  intonation." 

Treherne  took  heart  of  grace.  "But,  Colonel, 
this  is  a  lucid  interval.  Sometimes  I  am  not  myself, 
— in  fact,  for  many  years  I  was  absent."  He  used 
the  euphemism  with  a  downcast  air,  as  if  he  could 
not  brook  a  plainer  phrase.  Then,  visibly  bracing 
himself,  "It  was  the  effects  of  the  old  wound, — the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        201 

sabre  cut  on  the  skull.  It  injured  the  brain.  I  have 
persuasions — obsessions."  His  words  faltered.  His 
eyes  dilated.  There  was  a  world  of  unexpressed 
meaning  in  his  tone,  as  he  lowered  his  voice,  scarcely 
moving  his  lips.  "Sometimes  I  am  possessed  by 
the  Devil." 

"We  will  not  speak  of  that  to-day,"  said  the 
stranger  suavely. 

"It  is  impossible!"  exclaimed  the  Colonel  dog 
matically.  "Look  at  the  facts, — you  come  to  me  out 
on  that  sand-bar  to  induce  me  to  aid  you  in  the 
search  for  the  Ducie  treasure  and  title  papers,  their 
recovery  is  due  to  your  effort  and,  in  all  probability, 
the  restoration  of  this  great  estate  to  its  rightful 


owners." 


"Ah,"  exclaimed  the  stranger  with  intense  in 
terest.  He  look  elated, — inordinately  elated. 

"And  because  you  had  forgotten  in  the  lapse  of 
time — forty  years, — the  exact  spot  where  you  and 
Archie  Ducie  hid  the  box  away,  and  the  wind  was 
blowing,  and  the  rain  imminent,  I  put  it  off — like 
a  fool — and  these  fiends  of  river  pirates,  or  gipsies, 
or  what  not,  got  the  information  from  you  when 
you  were  asleep, — talking  in  your  sleep." 

"Subconscious  cerebration,"  murmured  the  alien 
ist 

"And  because  they  did  not  exactly  understand 
the  terms  of  architecture  you  used  they  brought 
you  down  here  to  force  you  to  point  out  the  spot, 
and  bound  and  gagged  you, — oh, — Hugh,  my  heart 
bleeds  for  you !" 

"But  can't  you  think  for  him  a  little,  Colonel — 
can't  you  advise  him?  Forty  years  of  seclusion  does 
not  fit  a  man  to  cope  with  the  world  without  some 


202        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

preparation  for  the  encounter, — he  was  in  danger 
of  his  life,  in  falling  among  these  thieves.  He  in 
curred  a  jeopardy  which  I  know  he  esteems  even 
greater.  He  is  on  the  verge  of  a  most  extraordinary 
cure, — in  all  my  experience  I  have  never  known  its 
parallel.  Any  diastrous  chance  might  yet  prevent 
its  completion.  Now  that  he  has  accomplished  all 
that  he  so  desired  to  do,  can't  you  advise  him  to 
go  back  with  me  to  treatment,  regimen,  safety." 

"Not  unless  I  know  what  ails  him,"  said  the 
Colonel  stoutly. 

Once  more  the  eyes  of  Treherne  and  the  stranger 
met,  with  that  dark  and  dreadful  secret  between 
them.  Colonel  Kenwynton  appraised  the  glance  and 
its  subtle  significance,  and  fell  to  trembling  vio 
lently. 

"It  is  something  that  we  cannot  mention  this  day, 
— this  day  is  clear,"  said  the  alienist  firmly. 

"I  cannot  go  back, — I  cannot  go  back, — and  meet 
it  there,"  cried  Treherne  wildly.  "It  is  waiting  for 
me, — where  I  have  known  it  so  long.  I  shall  pass 
the  vestibule,  perhaps, — but  there  in  the  hall" — he 
paused,  shivering. 

"You  see  that,  as  yet,  you  cannot  protect  your 
self  in  the  world,  even  now,  when  you  are  as  sane 
as  the  Colonel.  But,  for  the  accident  that  brought 
these  people  here,  you  might  have  been  murdered 
by  those  miscreants  for  the  secret  hiding-place  that 
had  slipped  your  memory.  You  might  have  been 
heedlessly  left  on  the  floor  bound  and  gagged  to 
die.  It  was  the  merest  chance  that  I  happened  to 
think  you  might  be  at  Duciehurst." 

Treherne  was  trembling  in  every  fiber.  Cold 
drops  of  moisture  had  started  on  his  brow.  His 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        203 

eyes  were  dilated  and  quickly  glancing,  as  he  con 
templated  this  obsession  to  which  neither  dared  to 
refer  openly,  lest  the  slight  bonds  that  held  the 
mania  within  bounds,  the  exhaustion  of  the  spasm 
of  insanity,  called  the  lucid  interval,  be  overstrained 
and  snap  at  once. 

"I  believe  I  would  not  meet  it  here,  in  the  world, 
— away  from  where  it  has  been  so  long,"  he  said 
doggedly. 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  should?  You  might 
hurt  yourself, — and  Hugh,  and  this  you  would  de 
plore  more,  you  might  injure  some  one  else,"  said 
the  doctor. 

Treherne  suddenly  turned,  throwing  his  arms 
about  Colonel  Kenwynton  in  a  paroxysm  of  energy. 

"Colonel,  lead  the  way.  Go  with  me,  for  I  would 
follow  you  to  hell  if  you  led  the  charge.  God  knows 
I  have  done  that  often  enough.  Lead  the  charge, 
Colonel!" 

"Yes,  come  with  us,  Colonel,"  said  the  alienist 
cordially, — it  could  but  seem  a  sinister  sort  of  hos 
pitality.  "We  should  be  delighted  to  entertain  you 
for  a  few  days,  or,  indeed,  as  long  as  you  will  stay. 
It  is  not  a  public  institution,  but  we  have  a  beautiful 
place, — haven't  we,  Hugh? — something  very  extra 
in  the  way  of  conservatories.  Hugh  has  begun  to 
take  much  interest  in  our  orchids.  It  is  a  good  dis 
tance,  but  Mr.  Ducie  drove  me  down  here  from 
Caxton  with  his  fast  horse  in  less  time  than  I  could 
have  imagined." 

"Mr.  Ducie?"  said  Adrian  Ducie,  with  a  start. 
"Where  is  he?  Has  he  gone?" 

The  doctor  stared  as  if  he  himself  had  taken  leave 
of  his  senses.  "You  remember,"  he  said  confusedly, 


204        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

blending  the  reminder  with  an  air  of  explanation  to 
the  group  generally,  "that  when  we  had  that  game 
of  billiards  at  your  hotel  in  Caxton  last  evening  I 
asked  you  a  question  or  two  about  the  Duciehurst 
estate;  I  didn't  like  to  say  much,  but  your  replies 
gave  me  the  clew  as  to  where  Captain  Treherne 
had  gone  after  his  escape  from  the  Glenrose  sana 
torium.  He  had  inquired  about  Duciehurst  as  soon 
as  he  began  to  recover  his  memory,  and  seemed  to 
recur  to  the  subject  and  to  brood  upon  it.  The  idea 
stayed  with  me  all  night,  for  I  was  very  anxious, 
and  about  daybreak  I  took  the  liberty  of  rousing 
you  by  telephone  to  ask  if  the  roads  here  from  Cax 
ton  were  practicable  for  a  motor-car.  You  remem 
ber,  don't  you?" 

He  paused,  looking  in  some  surprise  at  Adrian. 

"You  told  me,"  he  continued,  "that  the  roads 
would  be  impracticable  after  these  rains,  and  as  I 
disclosed  the  emergency,  in  my  great  perturbation 
for  Captain  Treherne's  safety,  you  offered  to  drive 
me  down,  as  you  had  an  exceptionally  speedy  horse 
which  you  kept  for  your  easy  access  from  Caxton 
to  the  several  plantations  that  you  lease  in  this  vi 
cinity." 

Captain  Treherne,  the  possession  of  his  faculties 
as  complete  at  the  moment  as  if  he  had  never  known 
the  aberrations  of  a  mania,  listened  with  an  averse 
interest  and  a  lowering  brow  to  these  details  of  the 
preparations  made  for  his  capture  and  reincarcera- 
tion.  The  alienist  did  not  seem  to  observe  his  man 
ner  but  went  on,  apparently  at  haphazard.  "I  re 
gretted  to  put  you  to  so  great  an  inconvenience  at 
this  hour,  but  you  relieved  my  mind  by  saying  that 
you  knew  that  Captain  Treherne  had  been  a  valued 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        205 

friend  of  your  uncle's,  and  that  you  not  only  felt  it 
incumbent  on  you  to  be  of  any  service  possible  to 
him,  but  esteemed  it  a  privilege." 

"But  where, — where  is  Randal  Ducie  now?" 
asked  Adrian,  turning  hastily  to  the  door. 

The  doctor's  face  was  a  picture  of  uncompre 
hending  perplexity.  "Why,  isn't  this  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh,  no.  It  is  my  brother,"  exclaimed  Adrian, 
amidst  a  burst  of  laughter  that  relieved  the  tension 
of  the  situation.  Several  followed  from  the  room  to 
witness,  at  a  distance  not  very  discreet,  the  meeting 
of  the  facsimile  brothers. 

Randal  Ducie  had  hitched  the  horse  and  the  four- 
seated  phaeton  which  they  had  had  the  precaution 
to  provide  to  the  old  rack,  and,  awaiting  the  re 
turn  of  the  physician,  had  strolled  aimlessly  up  the 
pavement  through  the  rolling  fog  to  the  steps  of  the 
portico.  There  he  was  suddenly  confronted  by  the 
image  of  himself.  He  looked  startled  for  a  mo 
ment;  then,  with  a  rising  flush  and  a  brightening 
eye,  ascended  the  flight  with  an  eager  step. 

"Hello,"  said  one  brother  cavalierly. 

"Hello  yourself,"   responded  the  other. 

"Let  me  show  you  how  the  fellows  kiss  the  cheek 
in  old  France,"  said  Adrian. 

"Let  me  show  you  how  the  fellows  punch  the 
head  in  old  Mississippi,"  said  Randal. 

There  was  a  momentary  scuffle,  and  then,  arm 
in  arm  and  both  near  to  tears,  they  strolled  together 
down  the  long  portico  of  their  ancestral  home  with 
much  to  say  to  each  other,  after  their  separation, 
and  much  to  hear. 

The  group  of  men  at  the  door,  looking  laughingly 


206        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

after  them,  might  readily  have  discriminated  the 
moment  of  the  disclosure  of  the  discovery  of  the 
Duciehurst  treasure  with  the  release  of  the  mortgage 
foreclosed  so  long  ago.  Randal  paused  abruptly, 
facing  round  upon  his  brother  and  apparently  lis 
tening  in  stunned  amaze.  They  were  too  distant 
for  words  to  be  distinguished,  but  his  voice  came 
on  the  air,  loud  and  excited,  in  eager  questioning. 
He  was,  evidently,  about  to  turn  within  the  house, 
possibly  to  have  the  evidence  of  his  eyes  to  the  in- 
tendment  and  validity  of  this  paper,  when  Adrian, 
by  a  gesture,  checked  him.  The  fog  was  beginning 
to  lift,  and  the  figures  of  the  two  men  were  imposed 
on  a  vista  of  green,  where  the  sunlight  in  a  delicate 
clarity  after  the  rains,  in  a  refined  glister  of  matuti 
nal  gold,  was  beginning  to  send  long  glinting  beams 
among  the  glossy  foliage  of  the  magnolias,  and  to 
light  with  reverent  tapering  shafts  the  solemn  aisles 
of  the  weeping  willows  where  the  tombstones  reared 
unchanged  their  mortuary  memorials,  unmindful  of 
sheen  or  shadow,  of  fair  weather  or  foul,  even  of 
time,  as  the  years  came  and  went,  a  monition  only 
of  death  and  a  prophecy  of  eternity. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  must  tell  you,  Ran,"  Adrian 
said,  laying  both  hands  on  his  brother's  shoulders. 

Randal  threw  up  his  head,  excited,  expectant,  ap 
prehensive. 

"She  is  here, — one  of  the  passengers  of  the 
Cherokee  Rose." 

"She?"  exclaimed  Randal  in  blank  mystification. 
"Who?" 

Adrian  was  embarrassed.  It  seemed  as  if  even 
an  old  love  could  hardly  be  of  so  sluggish  a  divina 
tion, — as  if  Randal  must  have  probed  his  meaning. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        207 

He  reflected  that  it  might  be  some  keenly  sensitive 
consciousness  that  could  not  yet  bear  the  open  recog 
nition  of  the  facts.  Between  them  the  subject  of 
the  sudden  jilting  had  never  been  mentioned,  save 
in  Randal's  one  letter  apprising  his  brother  that 
the  engagement  was  off,  by  reason  of  the  lady's 
change  of  mind,  which  came,  indeed,  later  than  the 
item  in  the  Paris  journals,  chronicling  news  of  in 
terest  to  Americans  sojourning  abroad,  and  giving 
details  of  a  new  betrothal  in  a  circle  of  great  wealth 
and  position.  He  himself  had  never  known  such 
frenzy  of  emotion,  of  rage,  and  humiliation,  and 
compassion,  and  pride.  The  event  had  racked  him 
with  vicarious  woe.  It  had  dealt  him  a  wound  that 
would  not  heal,  but  now  and  again  burst  into  new 
and  undreamed  of  phases  of  anguish.  Even  yet  he 
shrank  from  taking  her  name  on  his  lips — and  to 
Randal  himself,  of  all  people.  Yet  Randal  must  be 
told, — he  must  not  meet  her  unaware.  The  pause 
of  indecision  continued  so  long  as  they  stood  thus, 
Adrian's  hands  on  his  brother's  shoulders,  that  Ran 
dal's  eyes  dilated  with  a  surprise  obviously  unaf 
fected.  He  lifted  his  own  hands  to  his  brother's 
elbows,  and  thus  facing  each  other  he  said:  "What 
of  it?  I  am  in  a  hurry, — I  want  to  see  that  release. 
Who  is  this  'she'?" 

"Why,  Randal, — it  is  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney, — 
Paula  Majoribanks,  that  was,  and  her  husband  and 
child." 

There  was  still  a  pause,  blank  of  significance. 

"Well,"  said  Randal,  meditatively,  at  length, 
"they  won't  like  that  quit-claim  paper  one  little  bit 
of  a  bit."  There  was  a  laugh  in  his  brilliant  hazel 
eyes,  and  it  touched  the  finely  cut  corners  of  his 


208        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

lips.  His  fresh  face  was  as  joyous,  as  candid,  as 
full  of  the  tender  affection  of  this  reunion  as  if  no 
word  of  a  troubled  past  had  been  spoken  to  jar  it. 

Oh,  that  she  should  come  between  them  on  this 
day  when  they  were  so  close  to  each  other,  Adrian 
reflected,  when  absence  had  made  each  so  dear, 
when  there  was  so  much  to  say  and  to  do,  when 
separation  impended,  and  time  was  so  short.  He 
felt  that  he  could  hardly  endure  to  have  their  mu 
tual  pleasure  marred,  that  he  could  not  brook  to  see 
Randal  abashed  in  her  presence,  and  conscious,  dis 
concerted  and  at  a  disadvantage  before  her  husband. 
Above  all,  and  before  all,  he  winced  for  Randal's 
pain  in  the  reopening  of  these  poignant  old  wounds 
to  bleed  and  ache  anew. 

His  arms  tightened  and  slipped  up  from  his 
brother's  shoulders  and  around  his  neck.  "Oh, 
Randal,  will  it  hurt  you  much?" 

Randal  looked  grave.  "A  lawsuit  is  always  a 
troublesome,  long-drawn-out  bother;  I  shrink  from 
the  suspense  and  the  expense.  But  I  am  mighty 
glad  to  have  the  chance  to  be  hurt  that  way." 

"Oh,  I  meant  will  it  give  you  pain  to  meet  Paula 
again  as  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney?" 

"What?"  Randal's  hearty  young  voice  rang  out 
with  a  note  of  amazement.  "Not  a  bit.  What  do 
you  take  me  for?" 

"I  was  afraid — you  would  feel,"  faltered  Ad 
rian. 

"Is  that  what's  the  matter  with  you?  You  look 
awfully  muffish." 

"Well, — as  you  loved  her  once, — I  thought " 

"That  was  a  case  of  mistaken  identity,"  said  Ran 
dal.  "Can't  you  realize  that  it  is  just  because  she 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        209 

could  prefer  another  man;  that  she  could  think  a 
thought  of  change;  that  her  plighted  faith  could 
be  broken;  that  her  love, — or  what  we  called  love, — 
could  take  unto  itself  wings  and  fly  away;  that  she 
was  only  an  illusion,  a  delusion,  a  snare.  I  never 
loved  the  woman  she  is." 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  hesitated  Adrian. 

"When  I  thought  her  mind  and  heart  matched  her 
face  she  seemed  beautiful  to  me,  too,"  said  Randal. 

"You  will  think  so  still." 

"Kid,  you  know  nothing  about  love.  A  man  truly 
in  love  may  have  been  attracted  by  beauty,  but  it  is 
not  that  which  holds  him.  It  is  a  unity  of  soul;  he 
finds  a  complement  of  mind;  he  has  a  sense  of  sym 
pathy  and,  through  thick  and  thin,  a  partisan,  con 
stant  faith  in  a  reciprocal  heart.  He  gets  used 
to  the  prettiest  face  and  it  makes  little  impression 
on  him, — just  as  he  wouldn't  notice,  after  a  time,  a 
fine  costume.  She  is  nothing  that  I  imagined.  She 
is  not  now,  and  she  never  was  the  ideal  I  loved. 
I  don't  regret  her.  Don't  grieve  for  me,  little  boy. 
And  now  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  those  paws 
off  my  neck, — you  are  half  strangling  me  with  your 
fraternal  anxiety.  Behold,  I  will  smite  you  under 
the  fifth  rib." 

There  was  once  more  a  brief,  boyish  scuffle.  Then 
the  two  turned  and  came  walking  decorously  back 
to  the  group  on  the  portico.  The  exterior  aspect  of 
the  old  ruin  had  an  added  majesty  by  daylight, 
despite  the  more  obvious  injuries  of  wreckage.  Its 
fine  proportions,  the  blended  elegance  and  state- 
liness  of  its  design,  the  richness  even  in  the  restraint 
of  its  ornamentation,  all  showed  with  telling  effect, 
apart  from  the  wild  work  within  of  the  marauders. 


210        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

These  details  the  rude  usage  it  had  received  could 
not  affect.  It  might  have  stood  as  an  imposing  ar 
chitectural  example  of  a  princely  residence  of  the 
date  of  its  erection,  and  it  was  impossible  to  gaze 
upon  it  with  a  sense  of  possessing  it,  and  feel  no 
glow  of  gratulation. 

"Why,  the  item  of  glass  alone  would  be  a  corker," 
a  practical  man  was  saying,  walking  backward  down 
the  stone  pavement  and  surveying  the  great  black 
gaps  of  the  shattered  windows. 

The  two  brothers  cast  a  meaning  glance  at  each 
other,  the  discussion,  of  which  this  was  obviously 
a  fragment,  evidently  looked  to  a  rehabilitation  of 
the  mansion  under  a  change  of  owners,  for,  cer 
tainly,  it  would  seem  that  Floyd-Rosney  had  neither 
the  interest  nor  the  associations  to  induce  him  to  set 
up  his  staff  of  rest  here.  It  was  only  a  straw,  but 
it  showed  how  the  wind  of  opinion  set,  and  the 
brothers  were  in  the  frame  of  mind  to  discern  pro 
pitious  omens.  The  sun  was  bright  on  the  over 
grown  spaces  of  the  lawn.  The  Cherokee  rose 
hedge  that  divided  it  from  the  family  graveyard, 
and  continued  much  further,  had  spread  with  its 
myriad  unpruned  sprangles  beyond  the  space  de 
signed  for  a  boundary,  growing  many  feet  wide.  Be 
neath  the  great  arch  it  described  stretched  a  long 
tunnel-like  arbor,  throughout  its  whole  extent,  dark, 
mystic,  in  the  shadow  of  its  evergreen  leaves.  By 
reason  of  some  natural  attraction  which  quaint 
nooks  have  for  children,  Marjorie  and  little  Ned 
had  discovered  this  strange  passageway,  and  were 
running  in  and  out  of  the  darksome  space,  with  their 
shrilly  sweet  cries  of  pretended  fright  and  real  ex 
citement,  each  time  venturing  a  little  farther  than 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

before.  The  mists  had  lifted  from  the  river,  which 
spread  a  broad,  rippling  surface  of  burnished  cop 
per  in  the  sunshine  under  an  azure  sky.  There  was 
no  sign  of  approaching  craft,  no  curl  of  smoke  above 
the  woods  beyond  the  point  to  herald  deliverance 
by  a  steamboat.  One  of  the  old  ladies  had  estab 
lished  herself  on  her  suitcase  on  the  topmost  step 
of  the  flight  from  the  portico,  and  it  would,  indeed, 
have  been  a  swift  steamer  that  could  have  escaped 
her  vigilance  and  passed  without  being  signaled. 

Adrian  paused  good-naturedly.  uYou  need  give 
yourself  no  uneasiness,  madam, — it  will  require  half 
an  hour's  time  at  least  for  a  steamboat  to  pass  this 
place  from  the  moment  that  she  is  sighted,"  he  said, 
in  polite  commiseration. 

But  the  old  lady  sat  tight.  uThey  tell  me  there 
is  a  crazy  man  in  there,"  she  declared  lugubriously. 
She  would  leave  by  the  first  opportunity. 

"He  is  going  presently  in  a  phaeton  across  the 
country,"  Adrian  explained.  "There  is  no  possible 
danger  from  him,  however, — he  has  only  occasional 
attacks.  He  is  perfectly  at  himself  to-day.  But  he 
will  not  be  going  on  the  boat."  This  remark  was 
unlucky,  as  it  increased  her  anxiety  to  embark. 

Randal  had  lifted  his  hat  after  a  moment's  pause, 
and  passed  on  without  his  brother.  He  hesitated, 
looked  back,  then  entered  the  vestibule,  and  came 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  Paula. 

It  had  been  five  years  since  they  had  met  and 
then  it  was  as  lovers.  She  had  not  dreamed  of  seeing 
him  here.  She  thought  him  ten  miles  away  at  Cax- 
ton.  She  had  never  been  more  brilliantly,  more  deli 
cately  beautiful.  Her  burnished  redundant  hair  that 
was  wont  to  resemble  gold,  and  to  seem  so  elabo- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

rately  tended,  had  now  a  luminous  fibrous  effect  at 
the  verges  of  the  smooth  pompadour  roll  that  had 
been  hastily  tossed  up  from  her  forehead.  She  even 
appeared  taller,  more  slender  than  usual,  since  she 
wore  a  clinging  gown  of  princess  effect,  in  one  piece, 
and,  obviously,  of  matutinal  usage,  in  more  conven 
tional  surroundings.  The  flowing  sleeve  showed 
her  bare  arm  from  the  elbow,  exquisitely  white  and 
soft.  The  V-shaped  neck  gave  to  view  her  delicate 
snowy  throat  rising  from  a  mist  of  lace.  The 
strange  large  flower-pattern  cast  over  a  ground  of 
thick  sheeny  white  was  an  orchid  with  a  gilded  verge, 
and  in  the  mauve  and  pearl  tones  she,  too,  looked 
like  some  rare  and  radiant  bloom.  Her  eyes  were 
sweet  and  expectant — her  step  swift.  She  was  on 
her  way  to  call  back  the  child.  She  paused  sud 
denly,  dumfounded,  disconcerted,  confronted  with 
the  past. 

She  recognized  Randal  in  one  instant,  despite  his 
resemblance  to  his  brother,  and  for  her  life  she 
could  not  command  her  countenance.  It  was  alter 
nately  red  and  white  in  the  same  moment.  She  felt 
that  his  confusion  would  heighten  hers,  yet  she  could 
not  forgive  his  composure,  his  well-bred,  graceful, 
gracious  manner,  his  clear,  vibrant,  assured  voice 
when  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his  hand:  "Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney — this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure.  I 
have  this  moment  heard  that  you  are  here.  Is  that 
your  husband?"  For  Floyd-Rosney  had  just  issued 
from  the  dining-room  and  was  advancing  down  the 
hall  toward  her  with  an  unmistakable,  connubial 
frown.  "Will  you  kindly  present  me?" 

It  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  Floyd-Rosney  had 
never  heard  of  the  simple  ceremony  of  an  introduc- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

tion.  Paula  could  not  secure  and  hold  his  attention. 
He  passed  Randal  over  with  a  casual,  unnoting 
glance,  and  began  to  take  her  to  task  in  no  measured 
terms. 

"Why  do  you  allow  the  child  to  chase  back  and 
forth  in  that  dark  tunnel  under  the  Cherokee  rose 
hedge?  He  will  be  scratched  to  pieces  by  the  briars, 
the  first  thing  you  know.  Why  is  he  with  that  mad 
cap  torn-boy,  Marjorie  Ashley?  Where  is  his  nurse, 
anyhow?" 

"Why,  she  is  completely  knocked  out  by  the  fa 
tigue  and  excitements, — she  is  quite  old,  you  remem 
ber,"  said  Paula  meekly,  seeking  to  stem  his  tide  of 
words.  "I  was  just  coming  out  to  play  nurse  my 
self.  But  stop  a  minute.  I  want  to " 

"I  won't  stop  a  minute, — I  don't  care  what  you 
want," — her  aspect  suddenly  seemed  to  strike  his 
attention.  "And  why  do  you  trick  yourself  out  in 
such  duds  at  such  a  time?" 

"Because  this  is  so  easy  to  put  on, — and  I  had 
to  dress  the  baby,"  Paula  was  near  to  tears.  "But 

I  want  to "  she  mended  the  phrase, — "This  is 

Mr.  Ducie;  he  wishes  to  meet  you." 

Floyd-Rosney  turned  his  imperious  gaze  on  Du 
cie  with  a  most  unperceiving  effect.  "Why,  of 
course,  I  know  it  is  Mr.  Ducie, — have  you  taken 
leave  of  your  senses,  Paula?  Mr.  Ducie  and  I 
have  seen  enough  of  each  other  on  this  trip  to  last 
us  the  rest  of  our  natural  existence.  I  can't  talk  to 
you  now,  Mr.  Ducie, — if  you  have  anything  to  say 
to  me  you  can  communicate  it  to  my  lawyers ;  I  will 
give  you  their  address." 

"It  is  not  business.  It  is  an  introduction,"  ex 
plained  Paula,  in  the  extremity  of  confusion,  while 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

Randal,  placid  and  impassive,  looked  on  inscrutably. 
"Mr.  Ducie  wishes  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

"Well,  he  has  got  it, — if  that  is  any  boon,"  Floyd- 
Rosney  stared  at  her,  stupefied. 

"But  this  is  the  brother, — Mr.  Randal  Ducie, — 
the  one  you  have  never  met."  In  Paula's  haste  to 
elude  her  husband's  impatient  interruption  she  could 
scarcely  speak.  Her  mouth  was  full  of  words,  but 
they  tripped  and  fell  over  each  other  in  her  agita 
tion  with  slips  and  grotesque  mispronunciations. 

"Hoh !"  said  Floyd-Rosney,  permitting  himself  to 
be  enlightened  at  last.  "Why  this  thing  of  twin 
brothers  is  no  end  of  a  farce."  He  shook  hands 
with  Randal  with  some  show  of  conventionality. 
He,  too,  was  mindful  of  the  past.  But  so  impatient 
was  his  temperament  with  aught  that  did  not  suit 
his  play  that  he  was  disposed  to  cavil  on  the  proba 
bilities.  "Are  you  sure," — then  he  paused. 

"That  I  am  myself, — reasonably  sure,"  said  Ran 
dal,  laughing.  And  now  that  Adrian  was  coming  in 
at  the  door  Floyd-Rosney  surveyed  them  both  as 
they  stood  together  with  a  sort  of  disaffected  but 
covert  arrogance. 

"Well — I  can  see  no  sort  of  difference,"  he  de 
clared. 

"Oh,  the  difference  is  very  obvious,"  said  Paula, 
struggling  to  assert  her  individuality. 

"I  should  thank  no  man  for  taking  the  liberty  of 
looking  so  much  like  me,"  said  Floyd-Rosney,  seek 
ing  to  compass  a  casual  remark.  Indeed,  but  for 
the  pressure  of  old  associations,  the  necessity  of 
taking  into  consideration  the  impression  made  upon 
the  by-standers,  all  conversant,  doubtless,  with  the 
former  relations  of  the  parties,  for  several  passers- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        215 

by  had  paused,  attracted  by  the  opportunity  for  the 
comparison  of  the  twins  side  by  side,  Floyd-Rosney 
would  have  dismissed  the  Messrs.  Ducie  and  their 
duplicate  countenance  with  a  mere  word. 

"I  didn't  expect  we  should  keep  up  the  resem 
blance,"  remarked  Adrian.  "While  I  was  abroad  I 
did  not  know  what  Randal  was  getting  to  look  like, 
and,  therefore,  I  didn't  know  which  way  to  look  my 
self.  But  now  that  we  are  together  we  each  have 
the  advantage  of  a  model." 

The  broker  seemed  to  gravely  ponder  this  strange 
statement,  the  others  laughed,  and  Paula  saw  her 
opportunity  to  terminate  the  contretemps.  "I'll  call 
the  baby  in,"  she  said,  and  slipped  deftly  past  and 
out  into  the  sunshine. 

Paula's  instinct  was  to  remove  the  cause  of  her 
husband's  irritation,  not  because  she  valued  Floyd- 
Rosney's  peace  of  mind  or  hoped  to  reinstate  his 
pose  of  dignity.  But  she  could  not  adjust  herself 
to  her  habitual  humility  with  him  in  Randal  Ducie's 
presence, — to  listen  to  his  instruction,  to  accept  his 
rebukes,  to  obey  his  commands,  to  laugh  at  his  vague 
and  infrequent  jests,  to  play  the  abased  jackal  to 
his  lion.  She  would  efface  herself;  she  would  be 
null;  she  would  do  naught  to  bring  down  wrath  on 
her  devoted  head, — but  beyond  this  her  strength 
was  inadequate.  So  she  hustled  the  two  children 
into  the  house  and  up  the  stairs,  and  out  of  the  great 
front  windows  of  the  hall  where  she  told  them  to 
stand  on  the  balcony  above  the  heads  of  the  group 
below  and  watch  for  the  appearance  of  a  boat. 

Now  and  then  their  sweet,  reedy  tones  floated 
down  as  they  conversed  with  each  other  at  the  ex 
treme  limit  of  their  vocal  pitch,  breaking,  occasion- 


216        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

ally,  into  peals  of  laughter.  Their  steps  sounded 
like  the  tread  of  half  a  dozen  pairs  of  feet,  so  rap 
idly  and  erratically  they  ran  back  and  forth.  At  in 
tervals  they  paused  and  stood  at  the  iron  balustrade, 
surveying  the  scene  from  every  point  of  view,  up 
the  river  and  down  the  river,  and  again  across,  in 
the  zealous  discharge  of  their  delegated  duty  to 
watch  for  a  boat.  Below  reigned  that  luxurious 
sense  of  quiet  which  ensues  on  the  cessation  of  a 
turbulent  commotion.  Groups  strolled  to  and  fro 
on  the  portico,  or  found  seats  on  the  broad  stone 
sills  of  the  windows  that  opened  upon  it.  Paula, 
in  her  white  and  lilac  floriated  house-dress,  walked 
a  little  apart,  pausing  occasionally  and  glancing  up 
to  caution  the  two  children  on  the  balcony  to  be  wary 
how  they  leaned  their  weight  on  the  grillwork  of 
the  iron  balustrade,  as  some  rivet  might  be  rusted 
and  weakened. 

Hildegarde  had  found  her  rough  gray  suit  im 
practicable  because  of  the  drenching  rains  of  yes 
terday  and  was  freshly  arrayed  in  a  very  chic  street 
costume  of  royal  blue  broadcloth,  trimmed  with 
bands  of  chinchilla  fur,  with  a  muff  and  hat  to  match. 
She  was  standing  near  a  window,  on  the  sill  of  which 
the  Major,  wrapped  in  a  rug  and  his  overcoat,  was 
ensconced,  having  been  brought  forth  for  a  breath 
of  air.  He  had  a  whimsical  look  of  discovery  on 
his  pallid  and  wrinkled  face.  She  was  recalling 
to  him  a  world  which  he  had  forgotten  so  long  ago 
that  it  had  all  the  flavor  of  a  new  existence. 

"I  can't  give  you  any  idea  of  the  scenery  en  route, 
Major," — she  was  describing  a  trip  to  the  far  west, 
— uin  fact  I  slept  the  whole  way.  You  see,  my  social 
duties  were  very  onerous  last  spring.  Our  club  had 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        217 

determined  to  give  twelve  dinner  dances  during  the 
season,  and  the  weather  became  hot  unusually  early, 
and  so  many  people  were  leaving  town  that  as  we 
were  pledged  to  twelve  we  were  compelled  to  give 
four  of  the  dinner  dances  during  the  last  week  and 
my  head  was  in  a  whirl.  There  was  the  Adelan- 
tado  ball,  too,  and  several  very  elaborate  luncheons, 
and  two  or  three  teas  every  afternoon,  and  what  be 
tween  the  indigestion  and  the  two-step  lumbago  I 
was  in  a  state  of  collapse  on  the  journey  west." 

"That  was  a  novel  campaign,"  remarked  the  old 
soldier. 

"It  was  a  forced  march,"  declared  Hildegarde. 
"I  didn't  revive  until  I  heard  dance  music  again  in 
the  Golden  City.  Let  me  prop  your  head  up  against 
the  window  frame  on  my  muff,  Major.  Oh,  yes,  it  is 
very  pretty, — all  soft  gray  and  white."  She  made  a 
point  of  describing  everything  in  detail  for  his  sight 
less  vision.  "You  might  get  a  nap  in  this  fresh  air, 
— for  it  is  a  'pillow  muff/  Yes,  indeed,"  watching 
his  trembling  fingers  explore  its  soft  densities,  "it 
is  very  fine,  but  I  won't  mention  the  awful  sum  it 
cost  my  daddy  lest  such  a  conscienceless  pillow  give 
you  the  nightmare." 

The  air  had  all  that  bland  luxurious  quality  so 
characteristic  of  the  southern  autumn.  A  sense  was 
rife  in  the  sunlit  spaces  of  a  suspension  of  effort. 
The  growths  of  the  year  were  complete;  the  in 
ception  of  the  new  was  not  yet  in  progress.  No  root 
stirred;  there  was  never  a  drop  of  sap  distilled;  not 
a  twig  felt  the  impetus  of  bourgeonning  anew. 
Naught  was  apposite  to  the  season  save  some 
languorous  dream,  too  delicate,  too  elusive  even  for 
memory.  It  touched  the  lissome  grace  of  the  wil- 


218        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

low-wands,  bare  and  silvery  and  flickering  in  the 
imperceptible  zephyrs.  It  lay,  swooning  with  sweet 
ness,  in  the  heart  of  a  late  rose  which  found  the 
changing  world  yet  so  kind  that  not  a  petal  wilted 
in  fear  of  frost.  It  silvered  the  mists  and  held 
them  shimmering  and  spellbound  here  and  there 
above  the  shining  pearl-tinted  water.  It  was  not 
summer,  to  be  sure,  but  the  apotheosis  of  the  de 
parting  season.  Those  far  gates  of  the  skies  were 
opening  to  receive  the  winged  past,  and,  surely,  some 
bright  reflection  of  a  supernal  day  had  fallen  most 
graciously  on  all  the  land. 

"For  my  part,  since  that  deal  is  over  and  done 
with  by  this  time,  I  don't  care  how  long  I  have  to 
wait  for  a  boat, — it  can  neither  mar  nor  make  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  the  broker,  as  he  puffed 
his  cigar  and  walked  with  long,  meditative  strides  up 
and  down  the  stone  pavement. 

Floyd-Rosney  did  not  concur  in  this  view.  He 
had  expected  all  the  early  hours  that  some  of  the 
neighboring  negroes  would  come  to  the  house,  at 
tracted  by  the  rumors  of  the  commotions  enacted 
there  during  the  night.  Thus  he  could  hire  a  mes 
senger  to  take  a  note  or  a  telephone  message  to  the 
nearest  livery  establishment  and  secure  a  convey 
ance  for  himself  and  family  to  the  railroad  station 
some  ten  miles  distant.  He  feared  that  hours,  nay 
a  day  or  so,  might  elapse  before  one  of  the  regular 
packets  plying  the  river  might  be  expected  to  pass. 
Those  already  in  transit  had,  doubtless,  "tied  up" 
during  the  storm,  and  now  waited  till  the  current 
should  compass  the  clearance  of  the  debris  of  the 
hurricane  floating  down  the  river.  The  steamers 
advertised  to  leave  on  their  regular  dates  had  not 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        219 

cast  off,  in  all  probability,  but  lay  supine  in  their 
allotted  berths  till  the  effects  of  the  storm  should 
be  past,  and  thus  would  not  be  due  here  for  twelve 
or  twenty-four  hours,  according  to  the  distance  of 
their  point  of  departure. 

As,  however,  time  went  on  and  the  old  house 
stood  all  solitary  in  the  gay  morning  light  as  it  had 
in  the  sad  moon-tide,  Floyd-Rosney  reflected  that 
no  one  had  gone  forth  from  the  place  except  the 
robbers  and  the  roustabouts  who  had  rowed  the 
party  down  from  the  Cherokee  Rose,  returning 
thither  immediately.  It  was,  therefore,  improbable 
that  any  rumor  was  rife  of  the  temporary  occupa 
tion  of  the  Duciehurst  mansion.  Hence  the  ab 
sence  of  curiosity  seekers.  Moreover,  even  were 
the  circumstances  known,  every  human  creature  in 
the  vicinity  with  the  capacity  to  stand  on  its  feet 
and  open  and  close  its  fingers  was  in  the  cotton  fields 
this  day,  for  the  sun's  rays  had  already  sufficiently 
dried  off  the  plant,  and  the  industry  of  cotton-pick 
ing,  even  more  than  time  and  tide,  waits  for  no 
body.  For  ucotton  is  money, — maybe  more,  maybe 
less,  but  cotton  is  money  every  time,"  according  to 
the  old  saying.  These  snowy  level  fields  were  rich 
with  coin  of  the  republic.  The  growing  staple  was 
visible  wealth,  scarcely  needing  the  transmuting 
touch  of  trade.  No !  of  all  the  wights  whom  he 
might  least  expect  to  see  it  was  any  cotton-picker, 
old  or  young,  of  the  region. 

There  being,  evidently,  no  chance  of  a  messenger, 
he  had  half  a  mind,  as  his  impatience  of  the  deten 
tion  increased,  to  go  himself  in  search  of  means  of 
telephonic  communication.  But,  apart  from  his 
spirit  of  leisure  and  his  habit  of  ease,  his  prejudices 


220        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

were  dainty,  and  he  looked  upon  the  miry  richness 
of  the  Mississippi  soil  as  if  it  were  insurmountable. 
To  be  sure,  now  and  again  he  affected  a  day  of  syl 
van  sport,  when,  with  dog  and  gun,  he  cared  as  little 
as  might  be  for  mud,  or  rain,  or  sleet,  or  snow;  but 
then,  he  was  caparisoned  as  a  Nimrod,  and  burrs 
and  briers,  stains  and  adhesive  mire,  were  all  the 
necessary  accessories,  and  of  no  consideration.  In 
his  metropolitan  attire  to  step  out  knee  deep  in  a 
soil  made  up  of  river  detritus,  the  depth  and  black 
ness  of  which  are  the  boast  and  glory  of  the  cotton 
belt,  was  scarcely  to  be  contemplated  if  an  alter 
native  was  possible. 

Suddenly  a  cry  smote  the  air  with  electrical  effect. 
"A  boat!  A  boat  I" 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  auspicious  announcement  came  first  from  the 
balcony.  Then  the  cry  UA  boat!  A  boat!"  was  taken 
up  by  the  group  on  the  portico,  and  echoed  by  those 
within,  pouring  out  in  eager  expectation  through 
the  vestibule  or  the  windows  that  opened  to  the  floor. 
Floyd-Rosney  experienced  a  moment  of  self-gratu- 
lation  on  his  prudential  hesitation.  He  might  have 
otherwise  been  half  a  mile  off,  plunging  through 
slough  and  switch-cane,  or  the  sharp  serrated  blades 
of  the  growths  of  saw-grass  that  edged  the  lake, 
before  he  could  gain  the  smooth  ways  of  the  turn- 
rows  of  the  cotton  fields.  All  knew  that  consider 
able  time  must  needs  elapse  from  the  moment  the 
boat  was  sighted,  far  up  the  river,  before  it  could 
pass  this  point.  But  shawls  were  strapped,  gloves, 
wraps,  hats,  gathered  together,  toilet  articles  tum 
bled  hastily  into  Gladstone  bags,  trunks  and  suit 
cases.  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  with  incomparable 
quickness,  had  shifted  into  a  gown  of  taupe  cloth, 
with  a  coat  to  match,  and  with  a  large  hat,  trimmed 
with  ostrich  plumes  of  the  same  shade,  on  her  golden 
hair,  in  lieu  of  the  rain-drenched  traveling  attire 
of  yesterday. 

After  a  few  moments  of  this  pandemonium  of 
preparation  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  river. 
Vacant  it  was,  sunlit,  a  certain  play  of  the  swift 
current  betokening  the  added  impetus  of  the  recent 

221 


222        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

heavy  rainfall  and  the  influx  of  its  swollen  tribu 
taries  from  the  region  to  the  northward.  Not  even 
a  coil  of  smoke  showed  above  the  forest  where  the 
river  curved. 

"The  packet  must  be  rounding  the  point,"  said 
Floyd-Rosney  hopefully. 

"Did  you  see  the  smoke  above  the  trees,  dar 
ling?"  Paula  called  out  to  the  eager  little  man,  now 
racing  joyfully  about  the  balcony,  now  pausing  to 
point  at  an  object  in  the  offing  with  his  tiny  fore 
finger. 

"No,  mamma;  the  boat;  the  boat!" 

Marjorie,  leaning  on  the  iron  rail,  was  gazing 
with  eager  eyes  in  vain  search. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  we  ought  to  be  able  to  see 
the  boat  from  the  portico  as  soon  as  he  can  from 
the  balcony,"  said  the  broker. 

An  adequate  reason  was  presently  presented  for 
the  advantage  of  the  balcony  as  an  outlook,  lifted 
so  high  above  the  portico. 

The  boat  lay  very  flat  on  the  surface, — a  shanty- 
boat! 

"Why,  Eddie,"  cried  Marjorie,  with  an  inflection 
of  poignant  disappointment, — she,  too,  had  been 
looking  for  the  towering  chimneys,  the  coil  of  black 
smoke,  backward  blown  in  the  smooth  progress  of  a 
packet,  the  white  guards,  the  natty  little  pilot-house, 
and  only  casually  she  had  chanced  to  descry  the  tiny 
flat  object  drifting  with  the  current  that  carried  it 
far  in  toward  the  point.  "That  is  a  shanty-boat, — 
we  don't  travel  on  that  kind  of  boat." 

The  child's  pink  and  white  face  was  crestfallen 
in  a  moment.  Language  seemed  to  fail  him  as  he 
gazed  disconsolate.  Then  he  sought  reassurance. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"Him  is  a  boat/*  he  declared  with  his  pointing  fore 
finger,  so  small  in  contrast  with  the  vast  spaces  he 
sought  to  index.  "Him  is  a  boat,  ain't  him,  mam 
ma?" 

"Him  is,  indeed,  a  boat,"  cried  out  Paula. 
"Never  mind,"  for  little  Ned's  head  was  drooping, 
"we  shall  get  a  bigger  boat  presently.  And  it  was 
you  that  saw  the  first  one !" 

"Get  him  down  from  there,  Paula,"  said  Floyd- 
Rosney,  greatly  discomposed.  "Set  him  at  some 
other  mischief,  for  God's  sake, — anything  but 
this." 

"He  is  coming  now,"  she  answered,  glimpsing  the 
rueful  little  face  through  the  balusters  of  the  stairs 
within,  and,  presently,  the  whole  diminutive  figure 
came  into  view  as  he  descended,  always  the  right 
foot  first,  and  only  one  step  at  a  time,  so  high  were 
the  intervals  for  his  fat  baby  legs. 

"The  poor  child,"  Paula  suddenly  exclaimed,  the 
tears  springing.  "There  just  seems  to  be  no  place 
for  him." 

Floyd-Rosney  obviously  felt  the  rebuke.  He 
winced  for  a  moment.  Then  he  justified  himself. 

"To  have  twenty  people  on  the  qui  vive  for  a 
boat  and  then  disappoint  them  with  that  silly  prank, 
— it  is  out  of  the  question." 

"It  was  no  prank, — he  meant  no  harm,"  said 
Paula  in  abashed  discomfiture.  "I  had  told  him  to 
watch  for  a  boat  merely  to  keep  him  out  of  the  way. 
I  didn't  think  to  explain  that  it  was  to  be  a  steam 
boat  for  us  to  board." 

"Then  you  ought  to  have  more  consideration  for 
other  people,"  Floyd-Rosney  fumed. 

His  strong  point  was  scarcely  altruism,  but  he 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

probably  felt  the  misadventure  even  more  sensibly 
than  any  of  the  others,  for  he  was  accustomed  to 
lording  it  in  a  fine  style  and  in  a  fine  sphere.  There 
was  no  lack  of  indicia  of  displeasure  among  the 
thwarted  travelers  as  they  strolled  in  baffled  irrita 
tion  up  and  down  the  stone  floor  of  the  portico, 
and  gazed  along  the  glittering  river  at  the  slow  ap 
proach  of  the  shanty-boat,  now  drifting  as  noiseless 
ly  and  apparently  as  aimlessly  on  the  lustrous  sur 
face  as  a  sere  leaf  on  a  gust  of  wind,  and  now,  with 
its  great  sweeps,  working  to  keep  the  current  from 
carrying  it  in  and  grounding  it  on  the  bank.  The 
old  lady  who  had  entertained  fears  of  the  insane 
man  was  both  peevishly  outspoken  and  addicted  to 
covert  innuendo. 

"I  declare  it  has  given  me  a  turn, — I  am  subject 
to  palpitation.1'  She  put  her  hand  with  a  gingerly 
gesture  to  the  decorous  passamenterie  on  her  chest 
that  outlined  her  embroidered  lawn  guimpe. 
"Shocks  are  very  bad  for  any  cardiacal  affection. 
Oh,  of  course,"  a  wan  and  wintry  smile  at  once  of 
acceptance  and  protest  as  Paula  expressed  her  vi 
carious  contrition,  "the  child  didn't  intend  any  harm, 
but  it  only  shows  the  truth  of  the  old  saw  that  chil 
dren  should  be  seen  and  not  heard."  She  could 
not  be  placated,  and  she  sighed  plaintively  as  she 
once  more  sat  down  on  her  suitcase  on  the  steps  of 
the  portico. 

The  men  had  less  to  say,  but  were  of  an  aspect 
little  less  morose.  Even  the  broker,  whose  heart 
had  warmed  to  the  sunshine,  felt  it  a  hardship  that 
he  should  not  have  the  boon  at  least  of  knowing 
how  the  deal  had  gone.  A  grim  laugh,  here  and 
there,  betokened  no  merriment  and  was  of  sarcas- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        225 

tic  intimations  that  touched  the  verge  of  rudeness. 
The  business  interests  of  more  than  one  were  liable 
to  suffer  by  prolonged  absence,  and  the  ruefulness 
of  disappointment  showed  in  several  countenances 
erstwhile  resolutely  cheerful. 

Paula,  to  escape  further  disaffected  comment,  had 
turned  within,  perceiving,  at  a  distance,  Hildegarde 
coming  down  the  hall,  gazing  intently  on  a  little 
forked  stick,  carried  stiffly  before  her  in  both  hands, 
the  eyes  of  a  group  hard  by  fixed  smilingly  upon 
her  mysterious  progress.  Randal  Ducie  suddenly 
entered  from  one  of  the  rooms  on  the  left,  where 
he  and  his  brother  had  been  examining  the  rescued 
papers. 

Was  it  because  Paula  was  so  accustomed  to  the 
vicarious  preeminence  which  her  husband's  wealth 
and  prominence  had  conferred  upon  her  that  she 
should  experience  a  sentiment  of  revolt  upon  dis 
cerning  the  surprise  and  accession  of  interest  in 
Randal  Ducie's  face  as  his  eyes  passed  from  her 
and  fixed  themselves  on  Hildegarde — or  was  it  be 
cause  she  still  arrogated  instinctively  her  quondam 
hold  upon  his  heart?  Had  she  never  consciously 
loosed  it? — or,  while  he  had  escaped  its  coercions, 
were  they  still  potential  with  her?  Why  should 
she  wince  and  redden  as,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he 
advanced  instantly  to  meet  Miss  Dean,  who  seemed 
not  to  see  him  and  to  cavalierly  ignore  his  presence. 

"Why,  won't  you  speak  to  me?"  he  demanded, 
smiling. 

Her  casual  glance  seemed  to  pass  him  over.  She 
was  intent  upon  the  little  forked  stick.  "What  do 
you  want  me  to  say  to  you?"  she  asked,  not  lifting 


226        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

her  radiant  blue  eyes,  half  glimpsed  beneath  her 
lowered  black  lashes. 

"Good  morning,  at  least,"  replied  Randal. 

"How  many  greetings  do  you  require?  Upon  my 
word,  the  man  has  forgotten  that  he  has  seen  me 
earlier  to-day.  I  wished  you  a  'good  morning*  at 
that  very  delectable  breakfast  table." 

"Oh,  that  must  have  been  my  brother,"  said  Ran 
dal,  enlightened.  "This  is  I,  myself,  Randal  Du- 


cie." 


"You  had  better  beware  how  you  try  your  fakes 
on  me.  You  don't  know  what  magic  power  I  have 
in  this  little  divining-rod.  I  will  tell  you  presently 
to  go  and  look  into  your  strong  box  and  find  all  your 
jewels  and  gold  turned  to  pebbles,  and  your  title- 
deeds  cinders  and  blank  paper." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  Floyd-Rosney  unpleasant 
ly.  "The  blind  goddess  will  undertake  that  little 
transformation."  His  imperious  temper  could 
scarcely  brook  the  perception  that  the  coterie  re 
garded  the  Ducies  as  restored  to  the  ownership  of 
their  ancient  estates,  even  while  he  stood  in  the 
hall  of  the  house  he  held  by  the  decree  of  the  courts. 

But  Hildegarde  did  not  hear  or  heed.  Bent  on 
her  frivolous  fun,  she  brushed  past  Ducie,  holding 
her  divining-rod  stiffly  in  her  dainty  fingers.  Her 
eyes  were  alight  with  laughter  as  she  exclaimed  in 
a  voice  agitated  with  affected  excitement,  "Oh,  it's 
turning!  It's  turning!  I  shall  find  silver  in  one 
more  moment.  Oh,  Major,  Major,"  she  brought 
the  twig  up  against  the  old  soldier's  breast.  "Here 
it  is — silver — in  the  Major's  waistcoat  pocket!" 

She  fell  back  against  the  great  newel  of  the  stair 
case,  laughing  ecstatically,  while  all  the  idle  group 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

looked  on  with  amused  sympathy,  save  only  the  two 
Floyd-Rosneys.  The  wife's  face  was  disconcerted, 
almost  wry,  with  the  affected  smile  she  sought  to 
maintain,  as  she  watched  Ducie's  glowing  expression 
of  admiration,  and  the  husband's  gravity  was  of 
baleful  significance  as  he  watched  her. 

"I  have  found  silver!  I  have  found  silver!  Now, 
Major,  stand  and  deliver."  As  the  trembling  fingers 
of  the  veteran  obediently  explored  the  pocket  and 
produced  several  bits  of  money,  they  were  hailed 
with  acclamations  by  the  discoverer,  till  she  suddenly 
espied  a  coin  with  a  hole  in  it.  "Oh,  Major,"  she 
cried,  in  genuine  enthusiasm.  "Give  me  this  dime!" 

"Oh,  Hildegarde,"— Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  face 
assumed  an  expression  of  reprehension,  but  Mrs. 
Dean  only  laughed  at  the  childish  freak. 

"I  will  have  it, — it  won't  make  or  break  the  Ma 
jor — I  want  it — to  wear  as  a  bangle,  to  remind  me 
of  this  lovely  trip,  and  all  that  the  Major  and  I 
have  plotted,  and  contrived,  and  conspired  together. 
Eh,  Major?  Oh, — thanks, — thanks, — muchly.  You 
may  have  the  rest,  Major."  And  she  tucked  the 
remaining  coins  back  into  his  pocket,  smiling  brightly 
the  while  up  into  his  sightless  eyes. 

Randal  Ducie,  with  an  air  of  sudden  decision, 
turned  about,  seized  his  brother  by  the  arm  and  to 
gether  they  stood  before  the  joyous  young  beauty, 
who  was  obviously  beginning  to  canvass  mentally  the 
next  possibility  of  amusement  under  these  unpro- 
pitious  circumstances. 

"Now,  Miss  Dean,  be  pleased  to  cast  your  eyes 
over  us.  I  am  not  going  to  allow  this  fellow  to  de 
prive  me  of  your  valuable  acquaintance." 

"Oh,  pick  me  out,   Miss   Dean,"   cried  Adrian 


228        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

plaintively.  "I  am  all  mixed  up.  I  don't  know  if  I 
am  myself  or  my  brother." 

Miss  Dean  stared  from  one  to  the  other,  her  bril 
liant  eyes  wide  with  wonder. 

"How  perfectly  amazing!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  how  did  you  distinguish  and 
recognize  one  of  them  Thursday  afternoon?" 

Paula's  mind  was  so  engrossed  that,  quick  as  she 
was  always  to  discern  the  fluctuations  of  favor  in 
her  husband's  disposition  toward  her,  she  had  not 
observed  his  peculiar  notice  of  the  fact  of  her  re 
tentive  memory  and  keen  perception  in  distinguish 
ing  the  veiled  identity  of  the  man  who  had  once 
been  dear  to  her, — once? 

"Oh,  I  saw  the  difference  instantly,"  she  declared, 
with  what  her  husband  considered  an  undignified 
glibness,  and  an  interest  especially  unbecoming  in  a 
matter  so  personal,  which  should  be  barred  to  her 
by  the  circumstances.  "This  is  Randal,  and  this  is 
Mr.  Adrian  Ducie." 

Indeed,  they  all  noticed,  with  varying  sentiments, 
the  familiar  use  of  the  Christian  name,  but  only 
Adrian  spoke  in  his  debonair  fashion. 

"Right-o !  I  begin  to  breathe  once  more.  I  was 
afraid  I  was  going  to  have  to  be  Randal." 

Miss  Dean  was  still  studying  the  aspect  of  the 
two  brothers.  "I  believe  you  are  correct,  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney,"  she  said  slowly.  "For  this  one,  Mr. 
Adrian  Ducie,  is  just  from  France,  and  he  has  on 
Paris-made  shoes, — I  know  the  last.  It  is  the 
dernier  cri." 

There  was  a  general  laugh. 

"Blessed  Saint  Crispin!  I'll  make  a  votive  of 
fering!"  cried  Adrian.  "Now,  Randal,  you  stay 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

away  from  me,"  with  a  vigorous  push  of  his 
brother  at  arm's  length,  "so  that  this  mix-up  can't 
happen  again." 

"I'll  borrow  his  shoes  when  he  is  asleep  and  he 
will  never  know  himself  any  morel"  said  Randal 
vindictively. 

There  was  a  sudden  cheerful  acclaim  from  the 
portico  without.  A  boat  had  been  sighted,  slowly 
rounding  the  point,  a  packet  of  the  line  this  time, 
and  all  was  bustle  preparatory  to  embarkation. 
Even  now  the  whistle,  husky,  loud,  widely  blaring, 
filled  the  air,  signaling  the  approaching  landing,  the 
Captain  having  received  information  when  passing 
the  Cherokee  Rose  of  the  plight  of  the  refugees. 
The  next  moment  they  were  sheepishly  laughing, 
for  the  steamer,  the  Nixie,  was  sending  forth  a  sec 
ond  blast,  a  prolonged  whining  shriek,  the  signal 
known  on  the  river  as  a  "begging  whistle"  by  which 
boats  solicit  patronage  in  passengers  or  freight,  and 
which  is  usually  sounded  only  when  there  is  a  doubt 
whether  a  stoppage  is  desired. 

Humoring  the  joke  at  their  expense,  the  refugees 
made  a  vigorous  reply,  waving  handkerchiefs,  rais 
ing  hats  on  umbrellas  and  canes,  hallooing  lustily, 
as  they  wended  their  way  down  the  pavement,  over 
the  ruined  embankment  of  the  old  levee,  along  the 
grass-grown  road  and  to  the  brink  of  the  bank, 
seeming  high  and  precipitous  at  this  stage  of  the 
river.  They  were  well  in  advance  of  the  stoppage 
of  the  steamer,  although,  as  she  came  sweeping 
down  the  current,  the  constantly  quickening  beat 
of  her  paddles  on  the  water  could  be  heard  at  a  con 
siderable  distance  in  that  acceleration  of  speed  al 
ways  preliminary  to  landing.  They  watched  all  her 


230'      THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

motions  with  an  eagerness  to  be  off  as  if  some  chance 
could  yet  snatch  the  opportunity  from  their  reach, 
— the  approach,  the  backing,  the  turning,  the  re 
newed  approach,  all  responsive  to  the  pilot-bells 
jangling  keenly  on  the  air.  Then  ensued  the  grad 
ual  cessation  of  the  pant  of  the  engines,  the  almost 
imperceptible  gliding  to  actual  stoppage,  as  the  Nixie 
lay  in  the  deep  trough  of  the  channel  of  the  river, 
the  slow  swinging  of  the  staging  from  the  pulleys 
suspended  above  the  lower  deck.  The  end  of  the 
frame  had  no  sooner  been  laid  on  the  verge  of  the 
high  bank  than  the  refugees  were  trooping  eagerly 
down  its  steep,  cleated  incline  to  the  lower  deck  as 
if  the  steamer  would  touch  but  a  moment  and  then 
forge  away  again. 

The  Nixie  was  sheering  off,  thus  little  delayed, 
to  resume  her  downward  journey  and  the  passen 
gers  had  begun  to  gather  on  the  promenade  deck 
when  Miss  Dean  encountered  Adrian  Ducie.  She 
stopped  short  at  the  sight  of  him.  "Why,  where  is 
the  other  one  of  you?"  she  exclaimed. 

uHe  remained  at  Duciehurst.  I  have  pressing 
business  in  Vicksburg, — my  stoppage,  as  you  know, 
was  involuntary.  I  shall  return  later." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  to  see  you  apart." 

"If  you  would  take  a  little  something  now,"  he 
said  alluringly,  "you  might  see  double.  Then  the 
freak  brothers  would  be  all  right  again." 

"But  the  parting  must  be  very  painful  after  such 
a  long  separation,"  she  speculated. 

"We  shed  a  couple  of  tears,"  and  Adrian  wagged 
his  head  in  melancholy  wise. 

"Oh,  you  turn  everything  into  ridicule, — even 
your  fraternal  affection,"  she  said  reproachfully. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        231 

"Would  you  have  me  fall  to  weeping  in  sad 
earnest?  Besides,  the  parting  is  only  for  a  day  or 
so.  I  shall  take  the  train  at  Vicksburg  and  rejoin 
him." 

"And  where  is  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney?"  she  asked, 
looking  about. 

"She,  too,  remained  at  Duciehurst,"  said  one  of 
the  sour  old  ladies. 

Adrian  rose  precipitately.  The  boat,  headed 
downstream,  was  now  in  the  middle  of  the  channel, 
and  he  gazed  at  the  rippling,  shimmering  expanse 
as  if  he  had  it  in  mind  to  attempt  its  transit.  Here, 
at  all  events,  was  something  which  he  did  not  turn 
into  ridicule.  The  great  house  beyond  its  ruinous 
levee  rose  majestically  into  the  noontide  sunlight, 
all  its  disasters  and  indignities  effaced  by  the  dis 
tance.  The  imposing,  pillared  portico,  the  massive 
main  building  with  its  heavy  cornice,  the  broad 
wings,  the  stone-coped  terraces,  all  were  distinct 
and  differentiated,  amidst  the  glossy  magnolias  that, 
sempervirent,  aided  its  aspect  of  reviviscence,  with  a 
fain  autumnal  haze  softening  its  lines,  and  the  bril 
liant  corrugated  surface  of  the  river  in  the  fore 
ground. 

He  stood  gazing  vainly  upon  it,  as  it  seemed  to  re 
cede  into  the  distance,  till,  presently,  the  boat 
rounded  a  point  and  it  vanished  like  an  unsubstan 
tial  mirage,  like  a  tenuous  mist  of  the  morning. 


CHAPTER   XII 

IT  was  through  no  will  of  her  own  that  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney  had  remained  at  Duciehurst.  She 
had  been  eager  and  instant  in  the  preparations  for 
departure  as  soon  as  the  approach  of  the  boat  was 
heralded.  She  had  aided  the  old  nurse  with  con 
vulsive  haste  by  hustling  the  baby's  effects  into  his 
suitcase,  jamming  his  cap  down  on  his  head  and 
shaking  him  into  his  coat  with  little  ceremony.  She 
had  seen  from  the  broken  windows  of  the  deserted 
music-room  the  Ducie  brothers,  the  last  of  all  the 
procession  of  travelers,  wending  down  toward  the 
great  white  shell  in  the  river  slowly  approaching, 
throwing  off  the  foam  in  wreaths  on  each  side.  The 
two  men  walked  shoulder  to  shoulder;  now  and 
again  they  paused  to  confer;  then  going  on;  and 
there  was  something  so  affectionate  in  their  look  and 
attitude,  almost  leaning  on  one  another,  so  endear 
ing  in  the  way  in  which  one  would  lay  his  hand  on 
the  other's  arm  that  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  and, 
for  the  moment,  she  felt  that  nothing  was  worth  hav 
ing  in  the  world  but  the  enduring  affection  of  a  sim 
ple  heart,  which  asks  naught  but  love  in  return. 

The  momentary  weakness  was  gone  as  it  had 
come.  She  could  feel  only  elation — to  be  going,  to 
get  out  of  the  house  of  Randal  Ducie,  which  she  had 
entered  with  reluctance,  even  when  she  had  doubted 

232 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        233 

his  claim,  and  now  that  it  had  been  proved  valid 
in  fact,  if  not  in  law,  she  could  scarcely  wait  to  be 
quit  of  it. 

In  the  hall,  as  she  flustered  forth — as  Floyd-Ros- 
ney  would  have  described  her  agitated  movements — 
she  was  astonished  to  come  upon  her  husband, 
placidly  pacing  up  and  down,  his  deliberate  cigar 
between  his  lips,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him. 

"Why,  dear," — she  used  the  connubial  address 
from  force  of  habit,  for  her  voice  was  crisp  and 
keenly  pitched — "aren't  you  ready?" 

"Seems  not,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  enigmati 
cally. 

"But  we  shall  be  left!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Exactly."  He  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth 
and  emitted  a  puff  of  fragrant  nicotian. 

He  was  wont  to  consult  his  own  whims,  but 
hitherto  her  supine  acquiescence  had  been  actuated 
less  by  a  realization  of  helplessness  than  endorse 
ment  of  his  right  of  mastery,  his  superior  and  pre 
vailing  will.  She  thought  of  her  submissiveness  at 
the  moment. 

How  she  had  loved  money !  His  money,  of  which 
she  had  enjoyed  such  share  as  he  saw  fit  to  dole 
forth.  All  the  stiffness,  the  induration  of  long  cus 
tom  was  at  war  with  her  impulse  as  she  cried: 

"But  I  want  to  go !  What  do  you  mean  by  stav 
ing  here?" 

"But  I  want  to  stay,"  he  said  imperiously,  "and 
that  is  what  I  mean,  and  all  I  mean." 

This  was  hardly  comprehensive.  He  could 
scarcely  control  the  rage  that  from  the  first  of  this 
ill-omened  detention  had  possessed  him  upon  the 
discovery  of  her  lingering  interest  in  the  face  of  her 


234        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

old  lover — a  simple  matter  and  explicable;  without 
latent  significance  it  would  have  been  in  the  mind 
of  any  other  man.  Had  it  involved  no  sequence  of 
subsequent  events  even  he,  perhaps,  would  have 
brought  himself  to  let  it  pass  unconsidered.  He 
could  not  expect  her  to  forget  the  fashion  of  Randal 
Ducie's  features,  and  the  presence  of  the  twin 
brother  conjured  up  his  face  anew — his  face  which 
she  had  subtly  distinguished  from  its  counterpart. 
That  revolted  his  pride.  His  wife  must  have  no 
thought,  no  care,  no  memory,  even,  for  aught  save 
him !  But  her  protest  as  to  his  ownership  of  Ducie- 
hurst,  her  revolt  against  owing  any  phase  of  her 
prosperity  to  the  misfortunes  of  the  Ducies,  argued 
latent  sensitiveness,  an  unprobed  wound  that  he  had 
not  suspected,  thoughts  that  he  could  not  divine, 
memories  that  he  did  not  share.  Never,  in  all  his 
experience  of  her,  had  her  individuality,  or  even  a 
question  of  his  authority,  been  asserted  save  since 
that  remembered  face  reappeared,  affecting  their 
matrimonial  accord — he,  imperious  to  command, 
from  his  plenitude  of  wealth  and  power,  she  eager 
to  fawn  and  obey. 

"You  don't  consider  me  at  all.  You  don't  consult 
my  wishes." 

"I  do  better,  my  love.  I  consult  our  mutual  in 
terests." 

"You  treat  me  like  a  child,  an  idiot!  You  let  me 
know  nothing  of  our  plans.  Why  should  we  not 
leave  this  battered  old  ruin  with  the  rest  of  the  pas 
sengers?  How  and  when  are  we  to  leave?  If,  for 
nothing  but  to  make  a  decent  response  to  Aunt  Doro 
thy's  questions,  I  ought  to  be  told  something.  I 
hardly  know  how  to  face  her." 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        235 

"Well  /  am  not  posing  for  that  old  darkey's  bene 
fit,"  he  said,  satirically  smiling. 

There  was  a  pause  full  of  expectancy. 

"This  battered  old  ruin!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  will 
be  the  finest  mansion  in  Mississippi  by  the  time  I 
am  through  with  it." 

He  cast  his  imperative  eyes  in  approval  over  the 
great  spaces  of  its  open  apartments.  "And  you,  my 
dear,  will  be  proud  to  be  its  chatelaine,  and  dispense 
its  hospitalities." 

"Never,"  she  cried  impetuously — "an  abasement 
of  pride  for  me!" 

He  changed  color  for  a  moment,  and  then  held  his 
ground. 

"The  ante-bellum  glories  will  be  revived  in  a 
style  that  has  not  been  attempted  in  this  country." 

"The  ante-bellum  glories — that  were  the  Duties'," 
she  said,  with  a  flushed  face  and  a  flashing  eye. 

He  was  of  so  imperious  a  personality  that  he  sel 
dom  encountered  rebuke  or  contradiction.  He  was 
of  such  potential  endowments  that  effort  was  un 
known  and  failure  was  annihilated  in  his  undertak 
ings.  He  scarcely  understood  how  he  should  deal 
with  this  unprecedented  insolence,  this  revolt  on 
the  part  of  the  being  who  had  seemed  to  him  most 
devoted,  most  adoring.  The  incense  of  worship  had 
been  dear  to  him, — and  now  the  worshiper  had 
lapsed  to  revilings  and  sacrilege ! 

"Paula,  you  are  a  fool  absolute,"  he  said  roughly. 

"Ah,  no — not  I — not  I !"  she  cried  significantly. 

She  lifted  her  head  with  a  quick  motion.  The 
boat  at  the  landing  was  getting  up  steam.  She  heard 
the  exhaust  of  the  engines,  then  the  sonorous  beat 


236       THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

of  the  paddles  on  the  water,  and  the  swishing  tu 
mult  of  the  waves  as  the  wheels  revolved. 

"They  are  going,"  she  cried,  "and  we  are  leftl" 

She  turned  to  him  in  agitation.  He  stood,  splen 
did  in  his  arrogant  assurance,  in  his  unrelenting 
dominance,  his  fine  presence  befitting  the  great  hall 
which  he  would  so  amply  grace  in  its  restored  mag 
nificence.  It  was  well  for  him  that  he  was  so  hand 
some.  Such  a  man,  less  graciously  endowed,  would 
have  been  intolerable  in  his  arrogance,  his  selfish 
ness,  his  brutality. 

He  showed  no  interest  in  the  departure  at  the 
landing;  he  knew,  by  the  sound,  that  the  steamboat 
was  now  well  out  in  midstream,  and  he  secretly  con 
gratulated  himself  upon  the  termination  of  this  ill- 
starred  revival  of  old  associations  with  the  Ducies. 
Never  again  should  they  cross  his  wife's  path. 
Never  again  should  he  submit  to  the  humiliation  im 
posed  upon  him  by  the  revival  of  old  memories 
which  had  incited  in  ,her  this  strange  restiveness  to 
his  supreme  control.  She  had  been  wont  to  hug 
her  chains — not  that  he  thus  phrased  the  gentle 
constraints  he  had  imposed,  rather  wifely  duty,  con 
jugal  love,  admiration,  trust. 

The  steamboat  was  gone  at  length,  and  his  wife, 
standing  in  the  hall  and  looking  through  the  wide 
doorless  portal,  had  seen  the  last  of  the  passengers. 
Looking  with  a  strange  expression  on  her  strained 
face  which  he  could  not  understand, — what  series  of 
mysteries  had  her  demeanor  set  him  to  interpret  dur 
ing  these  few  hours,  she  who  used  to  be  so  pellucidly 
transparent!  Looking  with  frowning  brow  and 
questioning  intent  eyes,  then  with  a  suddenly  clear 
ing  expression  and  a  vindictive  glance  like  triumph, 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        237 

she  turned  away  with  an  air  of  bridling  dignity,  as 
if  the  steamer  and  its  passengers  had  no  concern 
for  her,  and,  the  next  moment,  Randal  Ducie  as 
cended  the  steps  and  entered  the  hall. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

EDWARD  FLOYD-ROSNEY  in  some  sort  habitually 
confused  cause  and  effect.  In  his  normal  entourage 
he  mistook  the  swift  potencies  of  his  wealth,  wait 
ing  on  his  will,  like  a  conjurer's  magic,  for  an  in 
dividual  endowment  of  ability.  He  had  great  faith 
in  his  management.  In  every  group  of  business  men 
with  whom  his  affairs  brought  him  in  contact  his 
financial  weight  gave  him  a  predominance  and  an 
influence  which  flattered  his  vanity,  and  which  he 
interpreted  as  personal  tribute,  and  yet  he  did  not 
disassociate  in  his  mind  his  identity  from  his  in 
come.  His  wealth  was  an  integral  part  of  him,  one 
of  the  many  great  values  attached  to  his  personality 
— he  felt  that  he  was  wise  and  witty,  capable  and  co 
ercive.  He  addressed  himself  to  the  manipulation 
of  a  difficult  situation  with  a  certainty  of  success 
that  gave  a  momentum  to  the  force  with  which  his 
money  carried  all  before  him.  So  rarely  had  he 
been  placed  on  a  level  with  other  men,  in  a  position 
in  which  wealth  and  influence  were  inoperative,  that 
he  had  had  scant  opportunities  to  appraise  his  own 
mental  processes — his  judgment,  his  initiative,  his 
powers  of  ratiocination. 

He  did  not  feel  like  a  fool  when  Randal  Ducie 
walked  deliberately  into  the  hall  of  his  fathers, 
staring  in  responsive  surprise  to  see  the  Floyd-Ros- 
neys  still  lingering  there.  That  admission  was  im- 

238 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        239 

possible  to  Floyd-Rosney's  temperament.  He  felt 
as  if  contemplating  some  revulsion  of  nature.  He 
had  seen  this  man  among  the  crowd,  boarding  the 
steamer,  and  lo,  here  he  was  again,  on  dry  land 
and  the  boat  now  miles  distant. 

He  stood  stultified,  all  his  plans  for  the  avoidance 
of  Ducie  strangely  dislocated  and  set  at  naught  by 
the  unexpected  falling  out  of  events. 

He  was  not  calculated  to  bear  tamely  any  cross 
ing  of  his  will,  and  the  blood  began  to  throb  heav 
ily  in  his  temples  with  the  realization  that  his  wife 
had  understood  his  clumsy  maneuver,  of  which  she 
was  the  subject,  and  witnessed  its  ludicrous  discom 
fiture.  His  pride  would  not  suffer  him  to  glance 
toward  her,  where  she  sat  perched  up  on  the  grand 
staircase,  in  the  attitude  of  a  coquettish  girl.  He 
curtly  addressed  Ducie : 

"Thought  you  were  gone!" 

"No,"  said  Ducie,  almost  interrogatively,  as  to 
why  this  conclusion. 

Floyd-Rosney  responded  to  the  intonation. 

"I  saw  you  going  down  to  the  landing." 

"To  see  my  brother  off." 

"Oh,— ah " 

What  more  obvious — what  more  natural?  The 
one  resumed  his  interrupted  journey,  and  the  other 
was  to  take  up  his  usual  course  of  life.  That  is, 
thought  Floyd-Rosney,  if  this  one  is  Randal  Ducie. 
But,  for  some  reason,  they  might  have  reversed  the 
program,  and  this  is  the  other  one. 

Floyd-Rosney  struggled  almost  visibly  for  his 
wonted  dominance,  but  Ducie  had  naught  at  stake  on 
his  favor,  naught  to  give  or  to  lose,  and  his  manner 
was  singularly  composed  and  inexpressive — too  well 


240        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

bred  to  even  permit  the  fear  of  counter  questions 
as  to  why  they  lingered  here  and  let  the  steamer 
leave  without  them.  Perhaps,  he  felt  such  inquiries 
intrusive,  for,  after  a  moment,  he  turned  away,  and 
Floyd-Rosney  still  confronted  him  with  eyes  round 
and  astonished  and  his  face  a  flushed  and  uneasy 
mask  of  discomfiture. 

Momentarily  at  a  loss  how  to  dispose  of  himself, 
Ducie  looked  about  the  apartment,  devoid  of  chairs 
or  any  furniture,  and,  finally,  resorted  to  the  stair 
case,  taking  up  a  position  on  one  of  the  lower  steps. 
Perhaps,  had  he  known  that  the  Floyd-Rosneys 
were  within  he  would  have  lingered  outside.  But 
dignity  forbade  a  retreat,  although  his  disinclina 
tion  for  their  society  was  commensurate  with  Floyd- 
Rosney's  aversion  to  him  and  his  brother.  For  his 
life  Floyd-Rosney,  still  staring,  could  not  decide 
which  of  the  twain  he  had  here,  and  Paula,  with  a 
perverse  relish  of  his  quandary,  perceived  and  en 
joyed  his  dilemma.  Although  he  was  aware  she 
could  discern  the  difference  her  manner  afforded  him 
no  clew,  as  she  sat  silent  and  intentionally  looking 
very  pretty,  to  her  husband's  indignation,  as  he  noted 
the  grace  of  her  studied  attitude,  her  face  held  to 
inexpressive  serenity,  little  in  accord  with  the  tumult 
of  vexation  the  detention  had  occasioned  her. 

Floyd-Rosney  could  not  restrain  his  questions. 
Perhaps  they  might  pass  with  Ducie  as  idle  curios 
ity,  although  with  Paula  he  had  now  no  disguise. 

"You  are  waiting ?" 

"For  my  horse,"  returned  Ducie,  with  the  accent 
of  surprise.  "There  was  no  room  in  the  phaeton 
for  me,  as  Colonel  Kenwynton  and  Major  Lacey 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

concluded  to  accompany  the  doctor  and  his  patient 
to  the  sanatorium." 

So  this  was  Randal  Ducie,  and  the  brother  had 
resumed  his  journey  down  the  river. 

"The  doctor  promised  to  send  the  horse  back 

for  me "  he  paused  a  moment.  "I  hope  he  will 

send  the  phaeton,  too,  for  if  you  have  made  no  other 

arrangements "  Once  more  he  paused  blankly 

— it  seemed  so  strange  that  Floyd-Rosney  should  al 
low  himself  to  be  marooned  here  in  this  wise.  "If 
you  have  made  no  other  arrangements  it  will  give 
me  pleasure  to  drive  you  to  the  station  near  Glen- 


rose." 


"We  are  due  at  the  sanatorium  for  the  insane,  I 
think,"  cried  Paula,  with  her  little  fleering  laugh, 
her  chin  thrust  up  in  her  satirical  wont. 

Floyd-Rosney,  sore  bestead  and  amazed  by  her 
manner,  made  a  desperate  effort  to  recover  his  com 
posure. 

"Oh,  I  sent  a  telegram  by  one  of  the  passengers 
to  be  transmitted  when  the  boat  touches  at  the  land 
ing  at  Volney,  and  this  will  bring  an  automobile 
here  for  my  family." 

"If  the  passenger  does  not  forget  to  send  it,  or 
if,  when  the  boat  touches  he  is  not  asleep,  after  his 
vigils  here,  or  if  he  is  not  taking  a  walk,  or  eating 
his  lunch,  or,  like  Baal  of  old,  otherwise  engaged, 
when  we,  too,  may  cry  Baal,  Baal,  unavailingly.  For 
my  part,  I  accept  your  offer,  Mr.  Ducie,  if  your  ve 
hicle  comes  first;  if  not  I  hope  you  will  take  a  seat 
in  the  automobile  with  us." 

"That  is  a  compact,"  said  Ducie  graciously. 

Floyd-Rosney  felt  assured  that  this  was  Randal. 
He  was  more  suave  than  his  brother — or  was  it  that 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

old  associations  still  had  power  to  gentle  his  tem 
per?  He  could  not  understand  his  wife's  revolt. 
Now  and  again  he  looked  at  her  with  an  unconscious 
inquiry  in  his  eyes.  So  little  was  he  accustomed  to 
subject  his  own  actions  to  criticism  that  it  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  he  had  gone  too  far.  The  worm 
had  turned,  seeming  unaware  how  lowly  and  help 
less  was  its  estate.  He  had  all  the  sentiment  of 
grinding  it  under  his  heel,  as  he  said  loftily: 

"We  shall  have  no  need  to  impose  upon  you,  Mr. 
Ducie.  Our  own  conveyance  will  be  here  in  ample 
time," — then,  like  a  jaw-breaker — "Thanks." 

"I  march  with  the  first  detachment,"  declared 
Paula  hardily.  "I  shall  accept  your  offer  of  trans 
portation,  Mr.  Ducie,  if  the  auto  does  not  come 
first." 

Floyd-Rosney  thought  this  must  surely  be  Adrian 
Ducie,  and  not  his  brother.  For  some  reason  of 
their  own  they  must  have  exchanged  their  missions, 
and  Randal  had  gone  down  the  river,  leaving  his 
brother  here.  For  she — a  stickler  on  small  points 
of  the  appropriate — could  never  say  this  if  it  were 
her  old  lover.  Her  sense  of  decorum,  her  respect 
for  her  husband,  her  habitual  exercise  of  good  taste 
would  alike  forbid  the  suggestion.  Doubtless,  it 
was  Adrian  'Ducie. 

"I  don't  think  an  automobile  will  come,"  re 
marked  Ducie.  "The  roads  are  very  rough  be 
tween  here  and  Volney." 

Paula's  next  words  seemed  to  mend  the  matter 
a  trifle  in  Floyd-Rosney's  estimation. 

"I  think  we  have  all  had  enough  of  Duciehurst 
for  one  time!  I  would  not  risk  remaining  here,  as 
evening  closes  in,  for  any  consideration.  All  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        243 

riverside  harpies  will  be  flocking  here  when  this 
story  of  treasure  trove  is  bruited  abroad.  The  old 
place  will  be  fairly  torn  stone  from  stone,  and  there 
will  be  horrible  orgies  of  strife  and  bloodshed. 
There  ought  to  be  a  guard  set,  though  there  is  noth 
ing  now  to  guard." 

"Do  you  suppose  Captain  Treherne's  story  of  the 
river  pirates  was  all  fact  or  was  partly  the  effect 
of  his  hallucination?"  Ducie  asked. 

"The  cords  he  was  bound  with  were  pretty  cir 
cumstantial  evidence,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  not 
waiting,  as  usual,  for  her  husband's  word,  but  taking 
the  lead  in  the  conversation  with  aplomb  and  vivac 
ity — he  remembered  scornfully  that  before  her  mar 
riage  she  had  been  accounted  in  social  circles  intel 
lectual,  a  bel  esprit  among  the  frivols. 

"The  gag  failed  of  its  function  of  silence,"  she 
continued,  "it  told  the  whole  story.  You  would  have 
known  that  it  was  stern  truth  if  you  had  seen  it." 

Floyd-Rosney  vacillated   once   more. 

"This  must  be  Randal  Ducie,"  he  thought,  "for 
Adrian  was  present  at  the  liberation  of  Captain 
Treherne — indeed,  he  was  with  the  group  search 
ing  among  the  series  of  ruined  vacant  apartments 
when  the  prisoner  was  discovered." 

"The  finding  of  the  box  was  very  singular,"  spec 
ulated  Ducie,  "the  closest  imaginable  shave.  It  was 
just  as  possible  to  one  of  the  parties  on  the  verge 
of  discovery  as  the  other." 

He  was  in  that  uneasy,  disconcerted  state  of  mind 
usual  with  a  stranger  present  at  a  family  discord 
which  he  feels,  yet  must  not  obviously  perceive  and 
cannot  altogether  ignore. 

"It  seems  the  hand  of  fate,"  said  Paula. 


244        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"I  went  up  to  the  third  story  this  morning  and 
looked  at  the  place,"  remarked  Randal.  "I  really 
don't  see  how,  without  tools,  you  contrived  to  wrench 
the  heavy  washboard  away,  and  get  at  the  bricks  and 
the  interior  of  the  capital  of  the  pilaster." 

"It  seems  a  feat  more  in  keeping  with  Miss 
Dean,"  suggested  Floyd-Rosney,  ushe  has  such  a 
splendid  physique." 

"Hilda  is  as  strong  as  a  boy,"  declared  Paula. 
"She  does  'the  athletic' — affects  very  boyish  man 
ners,  don't  you  think?"  she  added,  addressing  Ducie 
directly. 

There  were  few  propositions  which  either  of  the 
Floyd-Rosneys  could  put  forth  with  which  Randal 
Ducie  would  not  have  agreed,  so  eager  was  he  to 
close  the  incident  without  awkward  friction.  To  let 
the  malapropos  encounter  pass  without  result  was 
the  instinct  of  his  good  breeding.  But,  upon  this 
direct  challenge,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  annul  his 
individuality,  his  convictions. 

"Why,  not  at  all  boyish,"  he  said.  "On  the  con 
trary,  I  think  her  manners  are  most  feminine  in  their 
fascination.  Did  you  notice  that  the  old  blind  Ma 
jor  was  having  the  time  of  his  life?" 

Floyd-Rosney,  without  the  possibility  of  seating 
himself  unless  he,  too,  resorted  to  the  stair,  was  pac 
ing  slowly  back  and  forth,  his  head  bent  low,  his 
hands  lightly  clasped  behind  him.  Now  and  again 
he  sent  forth  a  keenly  observant  glance  at  the  two 
disposed  on  the  stair,  like  a  couple  of  young  people 
sitting  out  a  dance  at  a  crowded  evening  function. 

"Hildegarde  will  flirt  with  anything  or  anybody 
when  good  material  cannot  be  had,"  said  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney,  with  a  manner  of  vague  discomfiture. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        245 

"Well,  that  is  scarcely  fair  to  my  brother,"  said 
Randal.  He  would  not  let  this  pass. 

"Oh,  I  should  judge  his  flirting  days  are  over," 
cried  Paula,  wilfully  flippant.  "He  is  as  crusty  as 
a  bear  with  a  sore  head." 

"Or  a  sore  heart,"  said  Randal,  thinking  of  Ad 
rian's  long  exile,  and  his  hard  fate,  ousted  from  his 
home  and  fortune;  then  he  could  have  bitten  his 
tongue  out,  realizing  the  sentimental  significance  of 
the  words.  Still  one  cannot  play  with  fire  without 
burning  one's  fingers,  and  there  are  always  embers 
among  the  ashes  of  an  old  flame. 

For  her  life  Paula  could  but  look  conscious  with 
the  eyes  of  both  men  on  her  face. 

"He  doesn't  seem  an  exponent  of  a  sore  heart." 
She  stumbled  inexcusably  in  her  clumsy  embarrass 
ment.  There  was  an  awkward  silence.  The  impli 
cation  that  Adrian  migkt  be  representative  passed 
as  untenable,  and  the  subject  of  hearts  was  eschewed 
thereafter. 

"Miss  Dean  has  been  quite  famous  as  a  beauty 
and  belle  in  her  brief  career,"  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney 
deigned  to  contribute  to  the  conversation. 

"She  is  wonderfully  attractive — so  original  and 
interesting,"  said  Ducie  warmly. 

"It  seems  to  me  Hilda  carries  her  principal  assets 
in  her  face,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney.  "They  say 
she  wouldn't  learn  a  thing  at  the  convent — and  what 
is  worse,  she  feels  no  lack." 

"What  does  any  woman  learn?"  demanded  Floyd- 
Rosney  iconoclastically,  "and  what  does  any 
woman's  education  signify?  A  mosaic  of  worthless 
smattering,  expensive  to  acquire,  and  impossible  to 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

apply.  Miss  Dean  lacks  nothing  in  lacking  this 
equipment." 

Paula  sat  affronted  and  indignant.  In  her  hus 
band's  sweeping  assertion  he  had  not  had  the  cour 
tesy  to  except  her,  and  it  was  hardly  admissible  for 
Ducie  to  repair  the  omission.  He  could  only  carry 
the  proposition  further  and  make  it  general,  and 
his  tact  seized  the  opportunity. 

"I  think  that  might  be  said  of  the  youth  of  both 
sexes.  The  fakir,  with  his  learning  made-easy,  is 
the  foible  of  the  age  and  its  prototype  extends  to 
business  methods — the  get-rich-quick  opportunities 
match  the  education-while-you-wait,  and  the  art,  re 
duced  to  a  smudge  with  a  thumb,  and  the  ballads  of 
a  country — the  voice  of  the  heart  of  the  people,  su 
perseded  by  ragtime." 

But  Paula  would  not  be  appeased. 

"If  women  are  constitutionally  idiots  and  cannot 
be  taught,"  she  cried,  "they  ought  not  to  be  responsi 
ble  for  folly.  That  is  a  charter  wide  as  the  winds." 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all,"  said  her  husband  dog 
matically.  But  how  he  would  have  reconciled  the 
variant  dicta  of  incapacity  and  accountability  must 
remain  a  matter  of  conjecture,  for  there  came  sud 
denly  on  the  air  the  iterative  sound  of  the  swift 
beat  of  hoofs  and,  through  the  open  door  in  another 
moment,  was  visible  a  double  phaeton  drawn  by 
a  glossy,  spirited  blood  bay,  brought  with  difficulty 
to  a  pause  and  lifting  alternately  his  small  forefeet 
with  the  ardor  of  motion,  even  when  the  pressure  on 
the  bit  in  his  mouth  constrained  his  eager  activity 
and  brought  him  to  a  halt. 

"I  have  won  out,"  said  Ducie  genially.  Since  it 
had  awkwardly  fallen  to  his  lot  to  offer  civilities  to 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        247 

these  people  he  did  it  with  a  very  pretty  grace.  "I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  you  and  your  family  to  the  sta 
tion,  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney." 

Floyd-Rosney's  eyes  were  on  the  space  beyond  the 
portico. 

"That's  a  good  horse  you  have,"  he  remarked 
seriously. 

"Yes — before  I  bought  him  he  was  on  the  turf, 
— winner  in  several  events." 

"You  don't  often  see  such  an  animal  in  private 
use,"  said  Floyd-Rosney,  unbending  a  trifle.  He, 
too,  loved  a  good  horse  for  its  own  sake. 

"True,  but  I  am  located  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  the  plantations  I  lease,  and  going  to  and  fro 
he  is  of  special  use  to  me.  I  can't  stand  a  slow 
way  of  getting  through  the  world,  and  the  roads 
won't  admit  of  an  auto." 

The  two  men  were  quite  unconstrained  for  the 
moment  in  the  natural  interest  of  a  subject  foreign 
to  their  difficult  mutual  relations.  Randal  Ducie's 
head  was  thrown  up,  his  eyes  glowed;  he  was  look 
ing  at  the  horse  with  a  sort  of  glad  admiration — an 
expression  which  Paula  well  remembered.  Floyd- 
Rosney's  eyes  narrowed  as  they  scanned  successively 
the  points  of  the  fine  animal,  his  own  face  calm, 
patronizing,  approving.  Neither  of  them,  for  the 
moment,  was  thinking  of  her.  She  had  followed 
them  out  upon  the  wide  stone  portico  and  stood  in 
the  sun,  her  head  tilted  a  trifle  that  her  broad  hat 
of  taupe  velvet  might  shade  her  eyes.  She  brought 
herself  potently  into  the  foreground,  seizing  the  fact 
that  Randal  was  unincumbered  with  baggage  of  any 
sort. 

"Where  is  the  treasure  trove?"  she  cried.   "Surely 


248        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

you  are  not  going  to  leave  it  in  the  ruins  of  this  old 
mansion!" 

Her  husband  flashed  at  her  a  glance  of  reproof 
which  would  once  have  silenced  her,  abashed  to  the 
ground.  Now  she  repeated  her  words,  wondering 
to  feel  so  composed,  so  possessed  of  all  her  facul 
ties.  Without  a  conscious  effort  of  observation  the 
details  of  the  scene  were  registered  in  her  mind 
unbefogged  by  her  wonted  bewilderment  in  her  hus 
band's  disapproval.  She  even  noticed  the  groom 
who  had  driven  the  vehicle  back  from  the  livery 
stable — no  colored  servant,  but  a  carrot-headed 
youth,  with  jockey  boots,  riding  breeches,  a  long 
freckled  face,  and  small  red-lidded  eyes,  very  close 
together,  gazing  at  Ducie  with  a  keen  intentness  as 
she  asked  the  question.  The  fame  of  the  discovery 
must  have  been  bruited  abroad  already,  and  she 
vaguely  wondered  at  this,  for,  as  yet,  no  one  on  land 
knew  the  facts,  except  the  alienist  and  his  party, 
safely  housed  at  the  sanatorium. 

"The  chest  of  valuables  found  here  last  night ?" 
replied  Ducie.  "Why,  I  haven't  it.  My  brother 
took  it  on  the  boat  in  his  suitcase,  and,  before  night 
fall,  it  will  be  in  one  of  the  banks  in  Vicksburg." 

Floyd-Rosney,  thrown  out  of  all  his  reckonings 
by  the  unaccountable  behavior  of  his  wife,  spoke  at 
random,  more  to  obviate  its  effects  than  with  any 
valid  intendment. 

"I  saw  the  box  opened,"  he  said;  "only  family 
jewels  and  a  lot  of  gold  coin  and  papers,  but  I  should 
think,  from  the  pretensions  of  this  place,  there  must 
have  been  elaborate  table  services  of  silver,  per 
haps  of  gold  plate.  Were  any  such  appurtenances 
hidden,  do  you  know,  and  recovered?" 


THE    STOKY    OP    DUCIEHURST        249 

Ducie  shook  his  head.  "I  know  nothing  of  such 
ware.  It  may  be,  or  it  may  not  be  here.  The  ab 
sence  of  the  papers  brought  out  the  story  of  the 
hiding  of  the  family  diamonds,  else  the  box  would 
have  remained  in  the  capital  of  the  pilaster,  where 
my  uncle  left  it,  till  the  crack  of  doom." 

Paula  never  understood  the  impulse  that  possessed 
her.  Boldly,  in  the  presence  of  her  husband,  she 
took  from  her  dainty  mesh  bag  a  small  key  set  with 
rubies  and  one  large  diamond. 

"Your  brother  carelessly  left  one  of  the  Ducie 
jewels -on  the  table  and  I  picked  it  up.  I  am  so  glad 
I  remembered  to  restore  it  to  you.  It  should  have 
been  in  your  possession  long  ago." 

Floyd-Rosney  was  watching  her  like  a  hawk,  and 
she  began  to  quail  before  his  eyes.  Oh,  why  had 
she  not  remembered  that  he  was  a  connoisseur  in 
bijouterie  and  bric-a-brac  of  many  sorts  and  would 
detect  instantly,  at  a  glance,  the  modern  fashion  and 
comparatively  slight  value  of  the  trinket.  More 
than  all,  why  had  she  not  reckoned  on  the  fact  that 
Randal  Ducie  was  no  actor.  Who  could  fail  to  in 
terpret  the  surprised  recognition  in  his  eyes,  his  gen 
tle  upbraiding  look  before  the  associations  thus  ruth 
lessly  summoned?  It  was  as  if  some  magic  had  ma 
terialized  all  the  tender  poignancy  of  first  love,  all 
his  winged  hopes,  all  the  heartbreak  of  a  cruel  dis 
appointment  crystallized  in  this  scintillating  bauble 
in  his  hand.  He  glanced  from  it  to  her,  then  back 
at  the  flashing  stones,  red  as  his  heart's  blood.  He 
looked  so  wounded,  so  passive,  as  if  content  to  suc 
cumb  to  a  blow  which  he  was  too  generous,  too  mag 
nanimous  to  return  in  kind. 

And  he  said  never  a  word. 


250        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

She  felt  that  her  face  was  flaring  scarlet;  the  hot 
tears  were  smitten  into  her  eyes.  She  could  not 
speak,  and,  for  a  long  moment  neither  of  the  two 
men  moved,  although  the  horse,  restive  and  eager  to 
be  off,  plunged  now  and  again,  almost  lifting  from 
his  feet  the  groom  at  his  head,  still  swinging  at  the 
bit,  but  staring,  as  if  resolved  into  eyes,  at  the  group 
on  the  piazza. 

"It  is  the  key  to  something  of  value" — she  found 
her  voice  suddenly — "or  it  would  never  have  been 
so  charmingly  decorated.  I  hope  it  will  unlock  all 
the  doors  shut  against  you,"  she  concluded  with  a 
little  bow. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  formally.  And  he  said 
no  more. 

"And  now  shall  we  go?"  asked  Floyd-Rosney 
curtly. 

There  being  only  four  places,  the  gentlemen  occu 
pying  the  front  seats,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  the  nurse 
and  the  baby  the  others,  there  was  no  room  for 
the  groom,  and  Ducie,  gathering  up  the  reins  pre 
paratory  to  driving,  directed  him  to  return  to  the 
livery  stable  on  one  of  the  cotton  wagons  which 
would  be  starting  in  an  hour  or  so.  The  ill-looking 
fellow  touched  his  cap,  loosed  the  bit  and  the  horse 
sprang  away  with  an  action  so  fine,  so  well  sus 
tained,  that  Floyd-Rosney's  brow  cleared.  The 
pleasure  of  the  moment  was  something. 

"What  will  you  take  for  him?"  he  asked,  quite 
human  for  the  nonce. 

"Not  for  sale.  Couldn't  spare  him,"  Ducie  re 
sponded,  the  reins  wound  about  his  forearms,  all  his 
strength  requisite  to  hold  the  abounding  vitality  and 
eagerness  of  the  animal  to  the  trot,  the  hoofs  fall- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        251 

ing  with  the  precision  of  machinery,  mile  after  mile. 

Only  once  did  the  pace  falter.  Suddenly  the  ani 
mal  plunged.  A  man  dashed  out  from  the  Cherokee 
rose  hedge  that  bordered  the  high-way  and  clutched 
the  bit.  With  the  momentum  of  his  pace  the  horse 
swung  him  off  his  feet,  and  frightened  and  swerving 
from  the  road,  reared  high.  As  the  forefeet  crashed 
to  the  ground  once  more  with  a  sharp  impact  the 
man  was  thrown  sprawling  to  the  roadside,  and  the 
horse  was  a  mile  away  before  the  occupants  of  the 
vehicle  knew  exactly  what  had  happened. 

"Oh, — oh 1"  cried  Paula,  "was  the  man 

hurt?  What  did  he  want?" 

"No  good,"  said  her  husband  grimly. 

"Oh,  oughtn't  we  go  back  and  see  what  we  have 
done?"  She  could  scarcely  speak  with  the  wind  of 
their  transit  blowing  the  words  down  her  throat. 
"Oh,  I  know  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  won't,  but,  Randal, 
don't  you  think  we  ought?" 

"Hardly,"  said  Randal. 

Floyd-Rosney's  head  slowly  turned,  and  his  slum 
berous  eyes,  with  a  bated  fury  smoldering  in  their 
depths,  looked  their  sneering  triumph  at  his  wife. 

"That  crack, — was  it ?"  he  asked  of  Randal. 

"A  pistol  ball,  I  think.  I  saw — I  thought  I  saw 
a  puff  of  smoke  from  the  Cherokee  hedge.  My 
head  feels  hot  yet.  For  simple  curiosity  look  at 
my  hat." 

Floyd-Rosney  removed  the  hat  from  the  head  of 
the  man  by  him.  He  turned  it  in  his  hand  and  his 
eyes  glittered.  Then  he  held  it  out  for  Ducie's  ob 
servation. 

There  was  a  small  orifice  on  one  side,  and  a  cor- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

responding  rift,  higher,  on  the  other.    Evidently,  the 
ball  had  passed  through. 

'Thirty  caliber,  I  should  judge,"   Floyd-Rosney 
ventured. 

"Looks  so?"  Randal  assented. 

"But  why — why "  exclaimed  Paula,  "should 

Randal  be  shot  at — he  might  have  been  killed — 
oh,  any  of  us  might  have  been  killed!" 

"The  story  of  the  treasure  trove — out  already, 
I  suppose,"  suggested  Floyd-Rosney. 

"And  it  is  believed  that  I  have  it  now  in  my  pos 
session,  carrying  it  to  a  place  of  safety,"  said  Ducie. 

"Just  as  well  for  you  to  get  to  town  as  speedily 
as  possible,"  remarked  Floyd-Rosney. 

To  have  escaped  an  attempt  at  highway  robbery 
is  not  an  agreeable  sensation,  however  futile  and 
ill  advised  the  enterprise.  This  possibility  had  not 
occurred  to  Floyd-Rosney,  yet  he  perceived  its  logic. 
It  was  obvious  that  the  rich  find  of  gold  and 
jewels  must  be  removed  from  Duciehurst,  and  by 
whom  more  probably  than  their  owner?  Doubtless, 
the  miscreants  had  expected  Ducie  to  be  accom 
panied  only  by  the  groom,  perhaps  a  party  to  the 
conspiracy,  and  albeit  this  supposition  had  gone 
awry,  there  was  only  one  unarmed  man  beside  him 
self  to  contend  against  a  possible  second  attack. 
Floyd-Rosney  would  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  Ducie  on 
every  account.  No  such  awkward  association  had 
ever  befallen  him,  significant  at  every  turn.  But, 
when  actual  physical  danger  to  himself  and  his  fam 
ily  was  involved  in  sitting  beside  him,  he  felt  all 
other  objections  frivolous  indeed,  and  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  rescue  when  the  fast  horse  drew  up  be- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        253 

side  the  platform  of  the  little  station  near  Glenrose, 
where  the  train  was  already  standing. 

The  conge  was  of  the  briefest,  although  Randal 
omitted  no  observance  which  a  courteous  voluntary 
host  might  have  affected.  He  left  the  horse  in 
charge  of  an  idler  about  the  station,  assisted  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney  into  the  coach,  where,  to  her  hus 
band's  satisfaction,  the  stateroom  was  vacant  and 
they  might  thus  be  spared  the  presence  of  the  vul 
gar  horde  of  travelers.  He  shook  hands  with  both 
husband  and  wife,  only  leaving  the  train  as  it  glided 
off.  Paula,  looking  from  her  window,  had  her  last 
glimpse  of  him,  standing  on  the  platform,  courte 
ously  lifting  his  hat  in  farewell.  She  had  a  wild, 
unreasoning  protest  against  the  parting,  her  eyes 
looked  a  mute  appeal,  and  she  felt  as  if  delivered  to 
her  fate. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE  ex-jockey,  left  standing  alone  on  the  drive 
in  front  of  the  old  mansion,  had  watched,  with  glow 
ing  eyes,  the  departure  of  the  phaeton  from  Ducie- 
hurst. 

"Ai-yi,  Ran  Ducie,"  he  jeered,  "ridin*  for  a  fall 
you  are,  if  you  did  but  know  it!" 

The  vehicle  was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment.  He 
thrust  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  sunk  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  strode  up  the  flight 
of  steps  to  the  broad  stone-floored  portico.  He 
stood  for  a  moment,  watching  the  great  shining,  rip 
pling  expanse  of  the  silent  river,  vacant  save  for  a 
small  steamer  of  the  government  fleet,  whisking 
along  in  haste  on  the  opposite  side,  with  a  heavy  coil 
of  smoke  and  a  fluttering  flag.  Then  he  strolled  into 
the  house,  looking  about  keenly  and  furtively  as  he 
went.  The  place  was  obviously  familiar  to  him, 
doubtless  from  many  secret  explorations,  and,  with 
out  hesitation,  he  took  his  way  up  two  flights  of 
stairs,  threading  the  vacant  apartments,  coming,  at 
last,  to  the  third  story  which  gave  access  to  the 
interior  of  the  capital  of  the  pilaster  where  the 
treasure  had  been  found. 

He  stood,  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets,  gazing  into 
the  cavity,  the  washboard  left  where  it  had  been 
prized  away  from  the  wall.  He  stooped  down  pres 
ently  and  sought  to  explore  the  interior  of  the  pil- 

254 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST       £55 

lar,  pulling  out  first  the  rotten  fragments  of  the 
ancient  knapsack.  He  gazed  at  these  remnants  with 
great  scorn  of  their  obsolete  fashioning,  then  set  to 
work  to  ransacking  them,  deftly  manipulating  the 
flaps  lest  something  hidden  there  should  escape  his 
scrutiny.  The  search  resulted  in  naught,  save  a 
handful  of  crumbs  of  desiccated  leather.  He  even 
paused  to  examine  the  quality  of  the  fabric  and  the 
stitching  of  the  construction. 

"Sewed  by  hand,  by  jinks !"  he  muttered.  But  the 
article  had  evidently  been  used  merely  as  protection, 
or  concealment,  perhaps,  for  the  box  it  had  con 
tained.  He  made  a  long-armed  lunge  into  the  depths 
of  the  cavity  in  hopes  of  further  booty,  realizing  that 
he  was  the  first  intruder  into  the  place  after  the  de 
parture  of  the  refugees  from  the  Cherokee  Rose, 
and  might  make  prize  of  whatever  they  had  pos 
sibly  overlooked.  His  heart  quickened  its  beats 
as  his  fingers  touched  straw,  but  when  he  dragged 
forth  a  bundle  holding  persistently  together  he  dis 
covered  that  it  was  but  one  of  the  well-woven, 
enormous  nests  of  the  tiny  sparrow,  creeping  in 
through  a  crevice  without,  and,  like  some  human 
builders,  having  a  disproportionate  idea  of  suitable 
housing  for  its  station.  He  spat  a  flood  of  tobacco 
juice  upon  the  cunning  work  of  the  vanished  archi 
tects,  and,  with  a  curse  as  grotesque  as  profane, 
made  a  circuit  of  the  interior  of  the  cavity  in  the  pil 
lar  with  his  bare  palms.  Nothing — quite  empty. 
The  treasure  had  lain  here  for  forty  years,  the  fact 
bruited  throughout  the  traditions  of  the  country. 
Hundreds,  of  whom  he  was  one,  had  made  vain 
search — "and  Randal  Ducie  had  found  it  first  go! 
Some  people  have  all  the  luck!"  He  had  ventured 


256       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

to  the  window  of  the  great  dining-room  last  night, 
after  his  confederates  had  fled,  and  had  gazed  with 
gloating  eyes  on  the  pile  of  gold  and  jewels  on  the 
table  before  Adrian  Ducie,  whom  he  mistook  for  the 
man  familiar  to  the  neighborhood.  The  sight  had 
maddened  him.  He  had  urgently  sought  to  stimu 
late  his  confederates  to  an  attack  on  the  place  while 
the  money  lay  undefended,  openly  on  the  table.  He 
thought  that  in  the  tumult  of  surprise  a  rich  cap 
ture  might  be  effected. 

"To  snatch  jes'  a  handful  would  have  done  me  a 
heap  o'  good,"  he  meditated. 

But  no !  Binnhart  had  declared  they  were  too 
far  outnumbered,  that  the  enterprise  was  imprac 
ticable.  And  Binnhart  had  seemed  slow  and  dazed, 
and  himself  the  victim  of  surprise.  Colty's  loose 
lips  curled  with  bitter  scorn  as  he  recalled  how 
owlishly  wise  Binnhart  had  looked  when  he  had  de 
clared  that  he  would  try  first  the  inside  and  then  the 
outside  of  this  pilaster  from  the  ground  floor,  in 
stead  of  at  once  essaying  the  capital, — but  he  did 
not  know  what  a  "capital"  was, — nor,  indeed,  did 
the  jovial  "Colty"  until  he  heard  the  word  from  Ran 
dal  Ducie  a  few  minutes  ago.  In  fact,  Binnhart  did 
not  know  the  difference  between  a  "pillar"  and  a 
"pilaster,"  except  as  the  builder  in  Caxton  had  ex 
pounded  the  terms.  Indeed,  Binnhart,  assuming  to 
be  a  leader  of  men,  should  be  better  informed. 
Leader !  He  would  lead  them  all  to  the  penitentiary 
if  they  followed  him  much  farther.  It  was  an  ill- 
omened  association  of  ideas.  Colty  Connover  be 
gan  to  wonder  if  any  of  the  refugees  from  the 
Cherokee  Rose  had  acquired  any  knowledge  of  the 
search  for  the  treasure  prosecuted  from  without. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        257 

He  remembered  how  suddenly  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  screams  had  frightened  the  marauders 
from  their  occupation  in  what  they  had  deemed  the 
deepest  solitude.  If  some  woman  had  been  sitting 
at  this  window  she  could  easily  have  heard  their 
unsuspecting  talk.  He  looked  down  speculatively. 
Through  the  broken  roof  of  the  portico  he  could 
discern  some  of  their  abandoned  tools  still  beside 
the  base  of  the  column.  "Pilaster,"  he  sneered. 
The  word  had  for  him  the  tang  of  an  opprobrious 
epithet.  She  could  have  heard  everything.  Had 
she,  indeed,  heard  aught?  Could  she  remember  the 
names?  She  could  doubtless  recall  "Colty."  That 
was  within  the  scope  of  the  meanest  intelligence.  He 
began  to  quail  with  the  realization  of  disastrous  pos 
sibilities.  What  woman  was  it,  he  wondered.  The 
one  in  the  phaeton?  He  hoped  Binnhart  might 
shoot  her  in  the  hold-up  planned  on  the  road.  A 
pistol  ball  would  tie  her  tongue  if — if  she  had  not 
already  told  all  she  knew !  Yet  what  would  his  name 
signify?  Only  that  he  was  one  of  the  seekers  who 
from  time  immemorial  had  ransacked  the  house  for 
its  treasure.  Robbery,  perhaps,  in  a  way,  yet  what 
was  so  definitely  abandoned  to  the  will  of  the  ma 
rauder  could  scarcely  be  esteemed  in  the  pale  of 
ownership.  If  only  the  gang  had  not  left  their  in 
sane  victim  bound  and  gagged,  as  evidence  of  their 
brutality.  "Colonel  Kenwynton  will  never  rest  till 
he  ferrets  out  who  done  that  job."  He  winced  and 
lifted  one  foot  high,  and  let  it  down  with  a  stamp. 
"I'd  hate  for  the  old  Colonel  to  git  on  my  track, 
sure,"  he  muttered. 

He  reflected  that  this  was  what  had  queered  the 
whole     run,     through     Binnhart's     self-sufficiency, 


258        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

though  that  fellow,  Treherne,  did  tell,  in  his  sleep, 
where  the  money  was  hid.  If  they  had  known — if 
they  had  only  known — what  constituted  the  capital 
of  a  pillar.  It  had  been  mismanaged — mismanaged 
from  the  beginning,  and  once  more  he  declared  that 
it  was  Captain  Hugh  Treherne  who  had  queered  the 
whole  run. 

He  walked  slowly  down  the  stairs  into  the  broad 
hall,  and  then,  threading  the  vacant  apartments  with 
the  definite  intention  of  familiarity,  he  came  into  the 
room  where  poor  Hugh  Treherne  had  lain  for  hours 
bound  and  gagged,  not  knowing  whether  his  suffer 
ings  were  actual  or  the  distraught  illusions  of  his 
mental  malady. 

Connover  stood  looking  at  the  many  footprints  in 
the  dust  on  the  floor,  clustered  about  the  clear  space 
where  the  man  had  lain.  In  the  corners  of  the  apart 
ment  the  dust  was  thick  and  gray  and  evidently  had 
not  been  disturbed  in  years.  Here  it  was  that  the 
refugees  of  the  Cherokee  Rose  had  found  Captain 
Treherne.  But  he  could  not  have  informed  his  res 
cuers  where  the  swag  was  hidden.  He  himself  did 
not  know, — he  could  not  say  when  he  was  awake. 
By  reason  of  his  distorted  mental  processes  only  in 
dreams  did  his  memory  rouse  itself;  only  his  som 
nolent  words  could  reveal  the  story  of  the  hiding 
of  the  treasure  in  the  capital  of  the  pilaster.  As, 
in  his  ignorant  fashion,  Connover  sought  to  realize 
the  situation  he  groped  for  the  clew  of  its  discov 
ery.  How  had  they  chanced  to  find  it?  Could  the 
woman  have  overheard  the  talk  of  the  gang  from 
the  window  of  the  attic,  and,  knowing  the  significa 
tion  of  the  terms  "pilaster"  and  "capital,"  could  she 
have  fallen  like  a  hawk  upon  her  prey?  Oh,  Binn- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        259 

hart  was  distanced  by  the  whole  field, — a  fool  and 
a  fake.     And  if  he  should  botch  this  hold-up  that 

he  had  planned  for  Randal  Ducie Suddenly  a 

nervous  thrill  agitated  Connover.  He  was  conscious 
that  an  eye  was  upon  him,  a  fixed,  furtive  scrutiny. 
He  gazed  wildly  about  the  desolate,  empty  room. 
Almost  he  could  see  a  vague  figure  at  the  door  with 
drawing  abruptly  as  he  glanced  toward  it,  but  when 
he  ran  into  the  hall  there  was  naught  for  sixty  feet 
along  which  any  spy  upon  him  must  have  passed. 
Still,  as  he  returned,  reassured,  he  felt  again  that 
covert  gaze.  Nothing  was  visible  at  the  window 
on  one  side  of  the  apartment.  On  the  other  side 
the  room  was  lighted  by  a  glass  door  opening  on  a 
veranda,  in  which  the  panes  had  recently  been  shat 
tered,  and  broken  glass  lay  about.  When  he  pulled 
it  ajar  loose  bits  fell  from  the  frame  and  crashed 
upon  the  floor,  setting  astir  keen  shrill  echoes 
through  the  empty  desolation  that  put  every  quiver 
ing  nerve  to  the  torture.  Outside  he  heard  a  vague, 
silly  laugh  even  before  he  perceived  Mrs.  Ber- 
ridge  standing  close  against  the  wall  in  her  effort  to 
escape  observation,  her  head,  with  its  towsled  cop 
per  hair,  all  bare,  but  an  apron  pinned  shawl-wise 
around  her  shoulders  in  lieu  of  a  wrap. 

"I'm  cotched,"  she  exclaimed  deprecatingly.  "I 
thought  I'd  peek  in  and  find  out  what's  going  on, 
though  I  reckon  I  ain't  wanted." 

"Not  much  you  ain't,"  he  declared,  recovering 
his  composure  with  difficulty.  "How'd  you  come?" 

"In  the  dug-out,"  she  explained.  "I  tied  Possum 
in  his  bunk,  and  locked  him  up,  and  took  out.  He's 
safe  enough." 


260        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  He'll  spend  most  of  his 
days  locked  up,  ennyhow,"  Colty  roughly  joked. 

"He  won't  nuther."  She  struck  at  him  with  an 
affectation  of  retaliation.  But  her  face  was  not  jo 
cose,  and  a  tallowy  pallor  accented  the  freckles. 

"Colty,"  she  lowered  her  voice  mysteriously,  "I 
have  heard  shootin'." 

"Naw!"  he  cried  remonstrantly,  as  if  the  re 
luctance  to  entertain  the  fact  could  annul  it. 

"Whenst  on  the  ruver  I  heard  shootin',"  she  de 
clared  again. 

"Oh,  shucks,  gal,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  couldn't 
hear  it  so  fur  off." 

"On  the  water!"  she  cried,  lifting  her  eyebrows. 
"The  water  fetches  the  sound." 

"He  said  he  wouldn't  shoot,"  cried  Colty  Con- 
nover,  his  lip  pendulously  drooping.  "He  said  on 


no  account." 


"You  b'lieve  his  gab?  Well,  you  are  a  softy!" 
she  flung  at  him.  Then,  with  one  end  of  the  apron 
string  in  her  mouth,  she  ejaculated  murmurously: 
"I  heard  shootin',"  looking  doubtfully  and  vaguely 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Then  he'll  swing  for  it  ef  he's  killed  Ran  Ducie. 
There  ain't  a  more  pop'lar  man  in  the  county,  nor 
a  better  judge  of  horseflesh." 

"I  ain't  carin'  fur  Binnhart  arter  the  way  he  made 
me  trick  that  crazy  loon  out'n  his  secrets  an'  then 
declared  he'd  gimme  nuthin'  thout  he  found  the 
truck." 

"Pulled  the  horse  an'  lost  yer  pay,  too,"  grinned 
Colty. 

"But  all  the  rest  will  be  tarred  with  the  same 
stick •' 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        261 

"Not  me  nor  you,"  interrupted  Colty  Connover, 
— "  'cause  he  said  he  wouldn't  shoot.  He  swore  he 
wouldn't." 

Suddenly  she  pushed  back  her  tousled  red  hair 
as  she  stood  near  the  glass  door,  and  looked  up  with 
a  startled  apprehension  on  her  face. 

"Listen,  Colty,  listen !  What  is  that  sound 

— what  is  that  sound?" 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  The  sun,  low 
in  its  circuit,  was  already  westering  on  the  October 
day.  Even  now  its  radiance  fell  through  the  great 
windows  and  open  doors  all  aslant,  and  lay  in  deep 
orange  tints  athwart  the  bare,  dusty  floors.  Many 
a  skein-like  effulgence  was  suspended  from  the  panes, 
and  on  these  fine  and  fiery  lines  illuminated  motes 
were  scattered  like  the  notation  of  music  on  an  im 
material  cleff.  There  was  no  wind,  no  rustle  of  the 
magnolia  trees  glimpsed  without.  The  river  was 
silent  as  always.  The  stillness  was  intense,  indescrib 
able,  and,  suddenly,  with  a  long  drawn  sigh,  a  creak 
ing  dissonance,  the  old  house  gave  forth  one  loud 
moan,  voicing  its  sorrows,  its  humiliation,  its  inani 
mate  woe. 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  with  aghast,  white 
faces.  Then,  with  a  common  impulse,  they  fled  from 
— they  knew  not  what.  The  woman  sprang  out  of 
the  shattered  glass  door  and  sped  through  the  shrub 
bery,  across  the  ruined  levee  to  her  dug-out,  swinging 
at  the  old  landing.  The  groom  dashed  down  the 
hall,  the  echoes  of  his  steps  hard  on  his  heels  like 
swift  pursuers,  out  into  the  road,  and  thence, 
scarcely  relaxing  his  pace,  ran  along  the  rugged 
ground  till  he  was  in  the  turn-row,  where  his  speed 
was  aided  by  the  smooth  hard-beaten  earth.  The 


262        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

cotton  was  breast  high,  and  glittering  in  the  after 
noon  sun — a  famous  crop.  He  could  scarcely  see 
the  pickers,  although  he  noted  here  and  there  their 
big  cylindrical  baskets,  filled  as  the  bags,  suspended 
from  their  necks,  overflowed  from  time  to  time.  A 
great  wagon  was  drawing  up  at  one  side  where  the 
road  struck  the  turn-row,  and  this  notified  him  that 
the  weigher,  with  his  steelyards,  had  arrived  to  pay 
off  the  laborers  according  to  the  weight  of  the  con 
tents  of  their  baskets,  and  to  convey  the  product  to 
Ran  Ducie's  gin.  He  welcomed  the  sight  of  an 
other  white  man,  for  he  desired  more  credible  tes 
timony,  in  case  it  should  be  needed,  than  the  hap 
hazard  observation  of  the  darkey  cotton  pickers  that 
he  was  miles  distant  from  the  scene  of  Binnhart's 
hold-up  at  the  time  of  the  shooting.  Hence  he  at 
tached  himself  to  the  society  of  the  weigher,  and 
made  himself  unpleasantly  conspicuous,  and  was  of 
ficious  and  obstructive  during  the  weighing  process, 
as  much  from  latent  intention  as  maladroit  folly. 
When,  at  last,  the  wagons  were  heaped  and  he  and 
the  weigher  took  their  seats  behind  two  of  the  big 
mules,  the  pickers,  trailing  on  foot  contentedly  in 
the  rear,  his  companion  observed:  "I'm  goin'  to 
tell  Mr.  Ducie  that  the  nex'  time  he  treats  you  to 
a  ride  he  may  pervide  a  coach  and  four,  for  durned 
if  I'll  have  you  monkeying  in  the  cotton  fields  along 
of  me  another  time."  Colty  Connover  had  made 
the  desired  impression  and  on  this  score  he  was  con 
tent.  Nevertheless,  again  and  again  during  the  after 
noon,  throughout  the  process  of  the  weighing,  and 
on  the  road  to  the  town,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  duties 
at  the  livery  stable  there  recurred  to  him  a  stupe 
fied,  stunned  realization  of  some  uncomprehended 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        263 

crisis,  and  again  and  again  he  asked  himself  help 
lessly:  "What  was  that  strange  sound  in  the  old 
house  ?  What  was  it  ?" 

And  on  the  river  bank,  in  the  little  amphibious 
cabin  upon  its  grotesque  high-water  stilts,  through  all 
the  afternoon  and  deep  into  the  night,  the  woman 
with  a  vague  thrill  of  terror  futilely  wondered, 
"What  was  that  strange,  strange  sound  in  the  old 
house?  What  was  it?" 


CHAPTER   XV 

CERTAINLY  no  institution  of  its  type  ever  had  such 
cheerful  inmates  as  the  Glenrose  Sanatorium  could 
boast  so  long  as  Colonel  Kenwynton  and  the  blind 
Major  sojourned  within  its  gates,  the  guests  of  the 
alienist  and  Captain  Hugh  Treherne.  The  patient 
experienced  no  recurrence  of  his  malady  during  the 
visit.  Indeed,  the  beneficial  influence,  with  the  inci 
dent  change  of  thought,  conversation,  and  occupa 
tion,  was  so  obvious  that  the  physician  acceded  to 
Colonel  Kenwynton's  earnest  urgency  to  allow  the 
Captain  to  go  home  with  him  and  spend  a  few  weeks 
at  his  plantation,  in  a  neighboring  county.  They 
made  a  solemn  compact  for  the  conservation  of  his 
safety  and  the  promotion  of  his  mental  health. 

"Captain,"  said  the  Colonel  the  first  evening  that 
they  spent  together  over  the  wood  fire  in  the  old 
plantation  house,  "I  don't  know  what  is  the  particu 
lar  devil  that  you  say  possesses  you  at  times,  and  I 
don't  want  to  know.  He  is  an  indignity  to  you  and 
an  affront  to  me.  Never  mention  the  nature  of  the 
obsession  to  me  for  I  won't  hear  it.  Never  let  me 
have  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  his  horn  or  his  hoof. 
But  if  you,  unhappily,  ever  feel  again  the  clutch  of 
his  claw  fastening  on  you,  just  report  to  me,  and  we'll 
both  strike  out  in  a  dog-trot  for  that  insane  asylum, 
and  let  the  doctor  exorcise  him  a  bit.  And  I  swear 
to  you  before  God  on  our  sacred  bonds  as  comrades 
in  the  Lost  Cause  I  will  stay  there  with  you  till  you 

264 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        265 

are  ready  to  come  home  with  me.  Shake  hands  on 
it,  dear  old  fellow — shake  hands  on  it." 

Perhaps  because  the  topic  was  interdicted  in  con 
versation  it  was  the  less  intrusive  in  thought.  Hugh 
Treherne  maintained  an  observance  of  the  Colonel's 
mandate  as  strict  and  as  soldierly  as  if  it  had  been 
read  in  general  orders  at  the  head  of  the  regiment. 
He  found  an  interest  in  the  Colonel's  affairs  in  the 
ramshackle  old  place,  which  was  but  a  meager  rem 
nant  of  his  former  princely  domain.  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton  had  brought  down  from  the  larger  methods 
of  the  old  times  a  constitutional  disregard  of 
minutiae.  Hence  men,  "indifferent  honest,"  other 
wise  would  overreach  him  in  negotiation.  Servants 
filched  ruthlessly  his  minor  possessions.  His  pas 
tures,  fields,  barns,  orchards,  were  plundered  with 
scarcely  a  realization  of  the  significance  of  robbery, 
the  facile  phrase,  "The  old  Cunnel  won't  care,"  or 
"The  old  Cunnel  won't  ever  know  the  difference," 
sufficient  to  numb  any  faint  prick  of  conscience. 

And  thus  it  was  that  his  home  had  fallen  to  de 
cay;  his  barns  and  fences  rotted;  his  gin  was  broken 
and  patched  and  deteriorated  in  common  with  all  his 
farm  machinery;  his  hedges  of  Cherokee  rose,  wid 
ened,  unpruned  and  untended,  becoming  veritable 
land  grabbers,  rather  than  boundaries,  and  yearly 
more  and  more  of  his  acres  must  needs  be  rented  for 
lack  of  funds  to  pay  a  force  of  laborers.  Colonel 
Kenwynton  lived  on  in  his  mortgaged  home  and 
"scuffled  up  the  money,"  as  he  phrased  the  process,  to 
meet  the  interest  year  by  year,  and  kept  but  sorry 
cheer  by  a  bleak  and  lonely  fireside.  Nevertheless, 
he  twirled  up  the  ends  of  his  white  mustachios 
jauntily  and  faced  the  world  with  a  bold  front. 


266        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

From  his  own  account  it  seemed  wonderful  that 
he  had  any  income  at  all,  and  as  if  much  business  tact 
must  be  requisite  to  hold  his  mortgages  together  in 
such  shape  that  they  should  assume  all  the  enlight 
ened  functions  of  a  fortune.  The  age  of  some  of 
these  obligations  was  a  source  of  special  pride  with 
him,  although  sometimes  with  an  air  of  important 
dismay  he  would  compute  the  amount  of  interest  he 
had  paid  in  the  course  of  years  on  their  several  re 
newals  aggregating  more  than  the  property  would 
sell  for  in  the  present  collapsed  condition  of  such 
real  estate  values.  When  he  came  to  speak  of  the 
interest  he  had  promised  to  pay,  he  would  pause  with 
an  imperative  shake  of  the  head,  as  if  to  abash  the 
futurity  which  was  fast  bringing  about  the  maturity 
of  these  notes. 

"Why,  Colonel,  this  is  not  good  business, — you 
have  practically  bought  your  own  property  twice 
over,"  Treherne  attempted  to  argue  with  him  one 
day  when  his  mood  waxed  confidential.  "You  should 
have  given  up  the  fight  long  ago  and  let  them  fore 
close." 

"Foreclose  on  my  home  place,  sir, — the  remnant 
of  my  father's  plantation?"  he  replied  in  amaze. 
"Why,  what  would  the  snail  do  without  the  shell  he 
was  born  with?  I  shall  need  a  narrower  one  before 
that  day  comes,  I  humbly  trust  in  Providence." 

Colonel  Kenwynton  could  scarcely  imagine  ex 
istence  without  a  mortgage.  A  deed  of  trust  seemed 
as  natural  and  essential  an  incident  of  a  holding  in 
fee  simple  as  the  title  papers. 

Treherne  discovered  as  time  went  on  opportuni 
ties  for  betterment  in  the  Colonel's  affairs,  small 
it  is  true,  pitiful  in  comparison  with  the  ideals  of 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        267 

the  old  gentleman,  who  lifted  his  brows  in  compas 
sionate  surprise  when  the  subject  was  broached,  and, 
but  that  he  could  not  contravene  the  common  sense 
of  the  proposition,  he  might  have  thought  it  an  in 
sane  impulse,  manifesting  itself  in  schemes  of  do 
mestic  economy  on  a  minute  scale. 

"Colonel,  this  place  ought  to  make  its  own  meat. 
There  is  plenty  of  corn  in  that  rearward  barn.  I 
put  a  padlock  on  its  door  to-day.  Those  young 
shoats  will  be  as  fine  a  lot  of  meat  as  ever  stepped 
by  hog-killing  time.  I  had  them  turned  into  the 
oak  woods  to-day, — to  give  them  a  chance  at  the 
mast, — makes  the  meat  streaked  lean  and  fat,  you 
know." 

"You  surprise  me,"  said  the  Colonel,  looking 
blankly  over  his  spectacles.  "I  didn't  know  there 
was  any  corn  left.  And  a  few  hogs  didn't  seem 
worth  wasting  time  about.  I  don't  go  into  such  mat 
ters,  dear  boy, — cotton  is  my  strong  suit.  Cotton 
is  the  only  play." 

"You  spent  your  time  in  the  war  mostly  on  the 
firing  line,  Colonel.  Somebody  ought  to  be  mighty 
thankful  you  were  not  in  the  quartermaster's  office. 
That  ham  we  cut  to-day  came  from  the  store,  and 
the  cook  tells  me  so  does  every  pound  of  lard  that 
goes  into  your  frying  pan,  and  all  the  bacon  you 
furnish  to  your  force  of  hands.  And  yet  you  have 
here  an  ample  lot  of  bacon  on  the  hoof  and  abund 
ance  of  good  feed  to  fatten  it." 

The  Colonel  appraised  the  logic  and  sat  humili 
ated  and  silent. 

"I  had  the  shoats  all  marked  and  sent  the  mark 
to  the  county  court  to  be  registered.  And  now  you'll 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

eat  your  own  meat  after  January  or  go  without," 
said  Treherne  sternly,  in  command  of  the  situation. 

By  some  accident,  searching  in  the  Colonel's  desk 
for  an  envelope  or  some  such  matter,  Treherne 
chanced  to  discover  a  receipt  for  a  bill  which  the 
old  gentleman  had  carelessly  paid  twice. 

"I  took  his  word,  of  course,"  said  the  Colonel  in 
vicarious  abasement,  "as  the  word  of  a  gentleman 
and  an  old  soldier." 

"An  old  soldier  on  the  back  track  generally.  I 
remember  him  well,"  said  Treherne  uncompromis 
ingly.  "He  shall  refund  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Tre 
herne." 

And  he  did  refund,  protesting  that  the  matter  was 
an  accident,  an  oversight,  which  excuses  the  Colonel 
accepted  in  good  faith  and  brought  back  to  the  skep 
tical  Hugh  Treherne. 

"So  queer  those  mistakes  never  happen  to  your 
advantage,  Colonel,"  he  snarled,  and  although  his 
contention  was  obviously  logical,  the  Colonel 
listened  dubiously. 

In  truth,  Colonel  Kenwynton  was  of  a  different 
animus,  of  a  dead  day,  of  a  species  as  extinct  as  the 
Plesiosaurus.  He  could  not  even  adapt  himself  to 
the  conditions  of  his  survival.  He  could  neither  hear 
nor  speak  through  the  telephone,  although  all  his 
faculties  were  unimpaired.  He  held  himself  im 
mune  from  diseases  of  modern  diagnosis;  for  him 
there  was  no  microbe,  no  appendicitis,  no  neurasthe 
nia.  His  credulity  revolted  against  the  practicabil 
ity  of  wireless  telegraphy  and  aviation.  He  clove 
to  his  old  books,  and,  except  for  the  newspapers, 
he  read  nothing  that  had  been  printed  within  the 
last  fifty  years.  His  ideas  of  amusement  were  those 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        269 

of  previous  generations.  He  was  a  skilled  sports 
man,  a  dead  shot,  indeed;  his  play  at  billiards  held 
the  record  at  his  club ;  he  was  versed  in  many  games 
of  chance  and  had  the  nerve  to  back  his  hand  or  his 
opinion  to  the  limit  of  his  power. 

He  was  a  shrewd  judge  of  horseflesh,  and,  as  he 
often  remarked  since  he  could  no  longer  own  and 
race  a  string,  he  took  pleasure  in  seeing  the  fine 
animals  of  other  men  achieve  credit  on  the  turf. 
Despite  his  early  gambling  and  racing  proclivities 
he  had  always  been  esteemed  a  man  of  immaculate 
honor  and  held  a  high  social  position.  This  ascend 
ancy  was  supplemented  by  certain  associations  of 
special  piety  incongruously  enough.  As  long  as  his 
wife  had  lived  he  accompanied  her  to  church  every 
Sunday  morning;  he  drew  the  line,  it  is  true,  at  the 
evening  service.  He  carried  a  large  prayerbook, 
and  his  notable  personality  rendered  his  presence 
marked.  He  read  the  responses  with  a  devotional 
air  and  a  solemn  voice  and  listened  to  the  sermon 
with  an  appearance  of  unflagging  interest  and  ab 
sorption;  as  he  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
he  could  go  to  heaven  on  the  footing  of  an  honorary 
member,  his  persuasion  was  in  a  manner  accepted, 
and  it  might  have  been  a  source  of  surprise  to  his 
friends  to  realize  that,  after  all,  he  was  not  a  pro 
fessedly  religious  man. 

For  some  weeks  the  two  incongruous  companions 
lived  on  in  great  peace  and  amity  in  the  seclusion  of 
the  old  plantation  house,  a  rambling  frame  struc 
ture  far  too  large  for  the  shrunken  number  of  its 
inmates.  The  broad  verandas  surrounding  it  on 
three  sides  scarcely  knew  a  footfall ;  the  upper  story 
was  unoccupied  save  for  the  Colonel's  bedroom,  for 


270        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

Treherne  had  selected  a  chamber  among  the  vacant 
apartments  on  the  ground  floor  that,  through  a  glass 
door  opening  on  the  veranda,  permitted  his  egress 
betimes  to  take  up  his  self-arrogated  supervisory 
duties  on  the  place  hours  before  his  host,  always  a 
late  riser,  was  astir. 

One  night, — a  memorable  night,— a  dreadful 
thing  happened.  The  Colonel  lay  asleep  in  his  big 
mahogany  four-poster;  the  placidity  of  venerable 
age  on  his  face  was  scarcely  less  appealing  than  the 
innocence  of  childhood;  his  snowy  hair  on  the  pil 
low  gave  back  a  silvery  gleam  to  the  red  suffusions 
from  the  hearth.  If  he  dreamed,  it  was  of  some  gen 
tle  phase  of  yore,  for  his  breathing  was  soft  and 
regular,  his  consciousness  far  away  adown  the  misty 
realms  of  the  past,  irrevocable  save  in  these  soft  and 
sleeping  illusions.  The  old  house  was  still  and 
silent.  At  long  intervals  an  errant  gust  stole  around 
a  corner  and  tried  a  window.  Then  it  skulked  away 
and,  for  a  time,  a  mute  peace  reigned. 

Suddenly  a  sound, — not  of  the  elements,  not  from 
without.  A  sound  that  in  the  deep  peace  of  dreams 
smote  no  fiber  of  consciousness.  It  came  again  and 
again.  It  was  the  sound  of  a  step  ascending  the 
stair.  A  slender  shaft  of  light  preceded  it — the 
dim  radiance  showed  first  in  a  line  under  the  door. 
Then  the  door  slowly  swung  ajar,  and  Hugh  Tre 
herne  entered,  his  candle  in  his  hand — not  the  of 
ficer  that  the  old  Colonel  had  known  and  trusted 
in  the  years  that  tried  men's  souls,  who  never  broke 
faith  or  failed  in  a  duty;  not  the  piteous  wreck  whom 
he  had  met  on  the  tow-head  where  the  Cherokee 
Rose  lay  aground,  who  wept  on  his  neck  and  be 
sought  his  aid;  not  the  earnest  altruist,  who  planned 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        271 

ancj  contrived  his  escape  from  durance,  through  suf 
fering  and  dread,  to  retrieve  the  injustice  done  to  an 
old  comrade's  heirs,  and  with  his  first  recall  of  mem 
ory  to  reveal  hidden  treasure  to  enrich  other  men. 
This  was  Hugh  Treherne,  of  the  obsession,  a  man 
who  believed  himself  possessed  of  the  devil. 

Colonel  Kenwynton,  gazing  wincingly  up  with 
eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  and  dazed  by  the  glare  of  the 
candle  held  close  to  his  face,  hardly  recognized  the 
lineaments  bent  above  him — wild,  distorted,  with  a 
sinister  smile,  a  queer  furtive  doubt,  as  if  some 
wicked  maniacal  impulse  debated  with  the  vanishing 
instinct  of  reason  in  his  brain. 

The  Colonel  feared  no  man.  The  instinct  of 
fear,  if  ever  it  had  existed  in  him,  was  annulled, 
atrophied.  But  in  this  lonely  house,  in  the  presence 
of  this  strange  and  inexplicable  possession,  in  all 
that  this  change,  so  curiously  wrought,  so  radical, 
so  sinister,  intimated,  his  blood  ran  cold. 

"He  has  come,  Colonel,"  hissed  the  strange  man, 
for  the  Colonel  could  hardly  make  shift  to  recog 
nize  him,  "the  Devil  has  come!" 

There  was  an  aghast  pause.  Then  Colonel  Ken 
wynton  understood  the  significance  of  the  catastro 
phe.  He  plunged  up  in  the  bed,  throwing  off  the 
cover,  and  gazed  wildly  around  the  room. 

"The  Devil  has  come? — Then  skirmish  to  the 
front,  Hugh !  Hold  him  in  check,  while  I  get  on  my 
clothes,  and  I'll  flank  him.  By  George,  I've  led 
a  forlorn  hope  in  my  time,  and  I'm  not  to  be  intimi 
dated  by  any  little  medical  fiend  like  this!" 

It  was  not  long,  however,  that  they  sojourned  at 
the  sanatorium,  but  the  doctor,  who  had  heard  of 
the  suddenness  of  the  seizure,  warned  Colonel  Ken- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

wynton  that  he  had  always  best  have  help  at  hand  in 
case  of  a  relapse  as  sudden. 

"You  might  be  in  danger  of  violence  from  him," 
the  doctor  explained,  seeing  that  Colonel  Kenwyn- 
ton  stared  in  blank  amaze. 

"In  danger  of  violence,  sir,  from  my  own  officer'' 
he  exclaimed,  flouting  the  obvious  absurdity,  as  if 
the  Confederate  army  were  in  complete  organiza 
tion,  the  loyal  submission  to  a  superior  in  rank  at 
once  the  dearest  behest  and  the  instinct  of  second 
nature  with  the  soldier. 

And,  indeed,  Hugh  Treherne  justified  the  trust. 
He  wrought  Colonel  Kenwynton  nothing  but  good. 
His  mental  health  was  so  far  restored  to  its  normal 
strength  that  when  they  had  returned  together  to 
the  old  home  he  took  the  lead  in  all  those  practical 
little  affairs  of  life  which  bored  the  Colonel,  and 
which  he  at  once  misunderstood  and  despised.  He 
shrank  from  society,  in  which,  indeed,  he  was  more 
feared  than  welcomed,  and  the  Colonel,  in  compas 
sion  for  his  infirmity  and  loneliness,  had  given  up 
most  of  his  cronies.  The  Colonel  suffered  from 
this  deprivation  more  than  Treherne,  who  took  an 
intense  and  almost  pathetic  interest  in  trifling  im 
provements;  the  fences  were  mended;  the  farm 
buildings  were  repaired;  various  small  peculations 
ceased,  for  the  servants  and  the  hands  whose  inter 
ests  brought  them  about  the  place  were  afraid  of  the 
"crazy  man,"  and  were  alert  and  capable  in  obey 
ing  his  orders, — the  anger  that  flashed  in  his  wild 
dark  eyes  was  not  reassuring.  He  pottered  in  placid 
content  about  these  industrial  pursuits  till  chance  led 
to  a  greater  utility. 

He    displayed    unexpected    judgment    in    advice 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        273 

which  saved  the  Colonel  from  taking  a  financial  step 
that  would,  indeed,  have  bereft  the  simple  snail  of 
his  rickety  old  shell  in  his  defenseless  years,  and  cer 
tain  financiers  of  a  dubious  sort,  baffled  in  the  ex 
pectation  of  gain  at  the  old  man's  loss,  looked  as 
kance  at  Hugh  Treherne  and  his  influence  with  his 
former  commander  which  promised  in  time  to  re 
move  him  altogether  from  their  clutches.  They 
made  great  talk  of  having  considered  his  interest 
rather  than  their  own,  and  in  set  phrase  withdrew 
the  sun  of  their  favor  to  shine  on  his  shattered  af 
fairs  no  more.  But  his  affairs  were  on  the  mend. 
Through  Treherne's  urgency  he  devoted  the  returns 
from  the  bulk  of  his  cotton  crop,  unusually  large 
this  year,  to  the  lifting  of  a  mortgage  on  a  pretty 
tract  of  land  nearer  the  county  town  than  his  plan 
tation,  almost  in  the  suburbs,  in  truth,  and  which 
was  thus  left  unencumbered.  In  this  matter  he  was 
difficult  of  persuasion,  and  yielded  only  at  last  to  be 
rid  of  importunacy. 

"Lord,  Hugh,  how  lonesome  I  do  feel  without 
that  money,"  he  said  drearily,  lighting  his  candle 
one  night. 

"But  you  have  got  the  land  free  of  all  encum 
brance,  Colonel, — dead  to  rights, — within  two  miles 
of  the  town,  right  out  there  in  the  night." 

"It  is  a  cold  night  and  dark,"  said  the  Colonel, 
toying  with  the  snuffers.  "It  seems  cruel  to  leave  it 
there,  bare  and  bleak,  with  no  sort  of  a  little  old 
mortgage  to  cover  it." 

But  then  he  laughed  and  took  himself  upstairs 
to  his  rest. 

A  similar  application  of  funds  betided  his  later 
shipments  of  bales,  the  receipts  from  which  were 


274        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

formerly  wont  to  vanish  in  driblets  he  hardly  knew 
how. 

"Hugh,  this  way  of  paying  debts  that  I  thought 
would  last  through  my  time  and  be  discharged  by 
my  executors  almost  takes  my  breath  away,"  he  said 
half  jocosely,  half  upbraiding.  "You  scarcely  leave 
me  a  dollar  for  myself, — to  buy  me  a  little  'baccy/  " 
And  then  they  both  laughed. 

In  the  forty  years  of  Hugh  Treherne's  incarcera 
tion  such  independent  means  as  he  had  possessed 
had  barely  sufficed  for  his  maintenance  at  the  sana 
torium,  constantly  dwindling  until  now  becoming  in 
adequate  for  that  purpose.  His  relatives  greatly 
disapproved  of  the  course  that  events  had  taken 
and  were  also  solicitous  for  his  safety  while  at 
large  and  the  possibility  of  injury  to  others  at  his 
hands.  One  of  them,  a  man  of  ample  fortune,  by 
way  of  coercing  acquiescence  in  their  views,  notified 
Colonel  Kenwynton  that  they  would  not  be  respon 
sible  for  any  expenses  which  Captain  Treherne  might 
incur  during  his  absence  from  the  asylum,  where  he 
had  been  placed  with  the  sanction  of  his  kindred,  and 
where  the  writer  of  this  communication  was  pre 
pared  to  defray  all  the  costs  of  his  sojourn  and 
treatment.  Colonel  Kenwynton,  in  a  letter  as  for 
mal  and  courteous  as  a  cartel  and  as  smoothly  fierce, 
expressed  his  ignorance  that  any  moneys  had  been 
asked  of  Captain  Treherne's  relatives,  and  begged 
to  know  when  and  by  whom  such  requests  had  been 
made.  Then  a  significant  silence  settled  on  the  sub 
ject. 

The  old  Colonel  felt  that  he  had  routed  the  en 
emy,  but  Hugh  Treherne,  to  whom  he  detailed  the 
circumstances,  for  he  treated  his  friend  in  every  re- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        275 

spect  as  a  sane  man  and  kept  nothing  from  him,  did 
not  share  his  host's  elation.  A  deep  gloom 
descended  upon  his  spirits  and  a  furtive  apprehen 
sion  looked  out  of  his  eyes.  He  cautiously  scanned 
the  personnel  of  every  approach  to  the  house  be 
fore  he  ventured  to  appear  and  greet  the  newcom 
ers,  and  in  his  small  interests  about  the  place  he  kept 
within  close  reach  of  refuge.  The  negroes  began 
to  notice  that  he  discontinued  his  supervisory  errands 
to  the  fields  where  the  picking  of  cotton  was  still 
in  progress  and  where  he  had  shown  himself  ex 
ceedingly  suspicious  of  the  accounts  of  the  weigher 
and  the  bulk  of  the  cotton  delivered  as  compared 
with  the  distribution  of  the  money  furnished  by 
Colonel  Kenwynton  for  paying  the  cotton  pickers. 
"The  ole  Gunnel's  crap  will  sho'ly  turn  out  fur  all 
hit  is  worf  dis  time,"  the  grinning  darkeys  were  in 
the  habit  of  commenting. 

The  old  gentleman  was  constitutionally  and  by 
training  incapable  of  detecting  this  deviation  from 
the  established  routine,  but  affection  whetted  his  wits 
and  he  observed  the  change  in  Hugh  Treherne's  ap 
pearance  when  it  began  to  be  so  marked  as  scarcely 
to  be  imputed  to  fluctuations  in  his  malady. 

"Why  are  you  looking  so  down-in-the-mouth, 
Hugh?"  he  demanded  one  morning  after  breakfast 
as  he  sprawled  comfortably  with  his  pipe  before  the 
crackling  fire,  agreeable  in  the  chill  of  the  early  De 
cember  day  despite  the  bland  golden  sunshine  of  the 
southern  winter.  Treherne  cast  at  him  a  glance 
helplessly  terrified,  like  a  child  in  the  face  of  danger, 
and  said  not  a  word.  "You  are  losing  your  relish 
for  country  life,  I  am  afraid,"  the  Colonel  went  on. 
"Why,  you  haven't  put  your  foot  in  stirrup  for  a, 


276        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

week.  Why  don't  you  take  your  horse  out  for  a  can 
ter?" 

The  hearty  genial  tones  opened  the  floodgates  of 
confidence.  It  was  impossible  for  Treherne  to  re 
sist  the  look  of  affectionate  solicitude,  of  kindly  sym 
pathy  in  those  transparently  candid  eyes. 

"Colonel,— I'm— I'm— afraid." 

"Zounds,  sir.    Afraid  of  what?" 

"Capture,"  the  hunted  creature  replied  succinctly. 

"Why,  look  here,  man,"  the  Colonel  rallied  him, 
"I  really  think  you  have  been  captured  before  this 
time.  How  long  were  you  in  prison  at  Camp 
Chase?" 

"But,  Colonel,  this  is  different.  I  think  my  friends 
— my  unfriends, — are  bent  on  restoring  me  to  se 
clusion." 

"Doctor  Vailer  won't  receive  you, — professional 
pride  much  lacerated  by  the  criticism  of  his  course 
expressed  by  your  precious  relative,  Tom  Treherne, 
— excuse  me  if  I  pause  here  to  particularly  curse 
him — and  you  know  when  you  touch  a  really  learned 
technician  of  any  sort  on  his  professional  pride,  you 
have  got  hold  of  his  keenest  susceptibility,  where 
he  feels  most  acutely  and  most  high-mindedly,  the 
very  nerves  of  his  soul,  so  to  speak,  his  spiritual 
essence.  Doctor  Vailer  won't  have  you." 

"But  there  are  other  alienists,  other  asylums  in 
Mississippi." 

"And  under  your  favor  there  is  me  in  Mississippi, 
— and  there  is  the  law  of  the  land.  I  tell  you,  Hugh, 
that  Tom  Treherne  might  as  well  try  to  bottle  up 
the  Mississippi  River  as  to  incarcerate  you  again 
without  Doctor  Vailer's  sanction,  of  course,  so  long 
as  I  am  out  of  the  ground," 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        277 

Hugh  Treherne  stirred  uneasily  and  crossed  and 
uncrossed  his  legs  as  he  sat  opposite  the  Colonel  in 
a  big  mahogany  chair  before  the  frowsy  hearth 
where  the  ashes  of  nearly  all  the  fires  since  fall  set 
in  were  banked  behind  the  big  tarnished  brass  dogs 
— the  Colonel  was  no  dainty  housekeeper,  and  de 
served  the  frequent  declaration  that  "de  Cunnel 
don't  know  de  diffunce." 

"People  generally,  Colonel,  will  approve  the 
course  of  my  relations,"  Treherne  argued.  "It  will 
seem  the  proper  thing  as  long  as  I  am — am — occa 
sionally — absent." 

"Well,  you  are  all  here,  now,  in  one  piece,"  de 
clared  the  old  man,  wagging  his  head  with  vehement 
emphasis. 

"It  will  seem  very  generous  of  Tom  Treherne  to 
offer,  to  desire  to  maintain  me  at  his  own  expense 
at  a  high-priced  private  sanatorium,  since  I  have  no 
means  of  my  own." 

He  paused,  a  bitter  look  of  repulsion  on  his  face. 
All  these  years — these  long  years,  the  men  of  his 
own  age,  the  compeers  of  his  youth,  had  been  at 
work  restoring  their  shattered  fortunes,  after  the 
terrible  cataclysm  of  war  that  had  wrecked  the  finan 
cial  interests  as  well  as  the  face  of  the  southern 
country,  achieving  eminence  and  distinction  in  their 
varied  lines  of  effort,  life  signifying  somewhat  of 
attainment  even  to  those  of  meanest  ability,  while 
he  was  gone  to  waste,  destroyed  by  his  own  gallant 
exploit;  the  blow  of  the  sabre,  the  jeering  accolade 
of  Fate,  when  he  had  triumphantly  led  his  troop  to 
the  capture  of  a  strong  battery,  had  consigned  him 
to  forty  years  of  idleness,  helplessness,  imprison- 


278        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

ment,  in  effect.  "Be  brave,  loyal,  and  fortunate," 
quotha. 

He  was  silently  revolving  these  reflections  so  long 
that  Colonel  Kenwynton,  puffing  his  pipe  with  gusto, 
declared: 

"I'll  make  Tom  Treherne's  liberality  look  like 
thirty  cents  before  I  am  done  with  him.  He  can't 
choke  you  off  and  hide  you  out  because  he  is  afraid 
you  might  be  troublesome  to  him  in  the  future, — dis 
pose  of  you  for  good  and  all, — not  while  I  am  alive. 
Why,  damme,  man,  you  commanded  a  troop  in  my 
regiment." 

"If  he  should  once  more  lay  hands  on  me  I  could 
never  get  away  from  him  and  his  precautions  and 
anxieties,  and  considerations  for  the  safety  of  the 
public  and  open-handed  generosity.  And,  Colonel, 
you  might  not  know  where  he  had  stowed  me  away 


next  time." 


"Hoh,"  snorted  the  Colonel,  "I  never  lose  sight 
of  you  longer  than  between  breakfast  and  dinner. 
I'd  be  on  his  track  with  every  detective  in  the  State 
before  dark.  Why,  Hugh,  I'm  a  moneyed  man. 
I'd  take  advantage  of  your  absence  to  mortgage  that 
little  tract  of  land  out  yonder  bare  of  all  encum 
brance,  and  I'd  spend  the  last  nickel  of  it  making 
publicity  for  Tom  Treherne.  He  isn't  going  to  spend 
any  money  except  for  his  own  objects.  Now,  boots 
and  saddles!  Time  for  you  to  be  on  the  march!" 

In  two  hours  Treherne  was  back  again,  with  a 
flush  on  his  face  and  a  light  in  his  eyes,  bearing  the 
mail,  for  which  he  had  ridden  to  the  nearest  town, 
and  this  contained  matters  of  interest  both  for  him 
and  the  Colonel.  It  was,  indeed,  a  rare  occurrence 
when  he  received  a  letter — in  forty  years  he  could 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        279 

count  the  missives  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  To 
day  the  post  brought  him  one  addressed  directly  to 
him  by  Adrian  Ducie,  although  the  counsel  for  the 
two  brothers  wrote  instead  to  Colonel  Kenwynton. 
In  common  with  all  people  of  advancing  years,  Tre- 
herne  was  continually  impressed  with  the  superiority 
of  the  methods  of  the  past  in  comparison  with 
those  of  to-day.  He  noted  the  courtesy,  the  consid 
eration  of  the  tone  of  the  letter,  and  at  once  likened 
it  to  the  manner  of  the  writer's  boy  uncle,  who  had 
been  his  chum  and  comrade  in  the  ancient  days.  His 
heart  warmed  to  the  perception  of  tact  which  had 
induced  this  one  of  the  brothers  to  write  who  had 
been  present  at  the  finding  of  the  box  and  the  valu 
able  papers,  that  it  was  hoped  would  return  to  the 
Ducie  heirs  the  estate  which  had  been  so  long 
wrested  from  them.  Adrian  and  Randal  had  both 
taken  care  on  that  occasion  to  express  their  deep  ap 
preciation  of  the  efforts  of  Archie  Dude's  friend  to 
restore  to  them  their  rights,  although  they  had  been 
the  victims  of  his  disqualified  memory.  But  now 
Adrian  repeated  their  realization  of  the  extreme  and 
friendly  interest  which  had  caused  this  object  to  so 
persistently  cling  to  the  mind  and  intention  of  Cap 
tain  Treherne,  and  asked  if  he  would  object  to  giv 
ing  testimony  in  a  sort  which  the  counsel  recom 
mended,  immediately  after  the  filing  of  the  bill  for 
the  recovery  of  the  property,  a  proceeding  de  bene 
csse,  to  be  used  in  case  of  death  or  a  recurrence  of  a 
malady  which  would  prevent  the  taking  of  his  de 
position  in  the  regular  proceedings  in  the  cause. 

It  was  a  difficult  letter  to  write,  a  delicate  propo 
sition  to  make,  and  it  was  done  with  a  simple  direct 
ness,  a  lack  of  circumlocution  which  might  imply 


280        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

that  Adrian  Ducie  thought  it  a  usual  matter  that 
gentlemen  could  be  seized  with  a  recurrence  of  acute 
mania,  obstructing  the  course  of  business,  and  tend 
ing  to  impede  justice.  Treherne  declared  that  it 
was  exactly  the  sort  of  letter  that  Archibald  Ducie 
would  have  written,  and  he  was  eager  to  comply  with 
the  request. 

"Only,"  he  began,  and  paused  abruptly. 

"Only  what?"  asked  the  Colonel,  looking  up  with 
grizzled  eyebrows  drawn. 

"You  don't  know  how — how  baffling  it  is  to  talk, 
to  speak,  when  you  are  aware  that  everybody  is 
all  the  time  disparaging  every  word  as  insanity. 
Even  you  could  scarcely  hold  your  own  under  such 
circumstances." 

"I  could,"  declared  the  Colonel  hardily.  "I'd 
know  that  nine  out  of  every  ten  men  are  crazy  any 
how,  with  no  lucid  intervals, — natural  fools,  born 
fools — fools  for  the  lack  of  sense, — only,"  with  a 
crafty  leer,  "the  rest  of  the  fellows  are  so  looney 
themselves  that  nobody  has  found  it  out." 

Treherne  laughed,  and  the  Colonel  went  on  with 
his  prelection. 

"Never  stop  to  consider  what  people  will  think, 
Hugh.  They  will  think  what  they  damn  please.  It 
is  the  root  of  most  of  the  troubles  that  beset  this 
world, — trying  to  square  our  preferences  and  duty 
to  what  people  will  think." 

Thus  the  testimony  de  bene  esse  was  taken,  Cap 
tain  Treherne's  story  from  the  beginning; — his  part 
in  the  concealment  of  the  treasure  at  Duciehurst,  as 
sisting  his  friend  and  comrade  Archibald  Ducie;  his 
knowledge  of  the  nature  of  the  papers  among  the 
jewels;  the  early  death  of  his  friend;  his  own  wound 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        281 

and  his  consequent  mental  disability;  his  incarcera 
tion  for  forty  years  in  an  insane  asylum;  his  recent 
recovery  of  memory,  and  his  resolve  to  right  this 
wrong  which  impelled  him  to  make  his  escape  from 
Glenrose ;  his  meeting  with  Colonel  Kenwynton ;  the 
strange  attack  he  sustained  from  unknown  miscre 
ants  after  quitting  the  sand-bar;  the  transit,  bound 
and  gagged,  to  Duciehurst,  supplemented  by  the  cir 
cumstances  of  his  liberation  by  Colonel  Kenwynton 
and  Adrian  Ducie.  The  affidavit  of  the  alienist  as 
to  his  lucid  condition  at  the  time  and  his  present 
mental  reliability  completed  the  proceedings. 

This  was  merely  a  precautionary  measure,  de 
signed  to  guard  against  a  relapse  of  Captain  Tre- 
herne  into  his  malady.  The  Ducie  heirs  had  al 
ready  made  formal  demand  for  the  restoration  of 
their  ancestral  estate,  alleging  the  full  satisfaction  of 
the  indebtedness,  recording  the  release  of  the  mort 
gage  and  the  quit-claim  deed,  and  bringing  suit 
against  all  in  interest. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

FLOYD-ROSNEY  could  sacrcely  restrain  his  fury 
when  the  papers  were  served  upon  him.  The  whole 
subject  had  grown  doubly  distasteful  because  of  its 
singular  connection  with  his  domestic  concerns.  He 
could  not  fall  to  so  poor  spirited  a  plane  as  to  im 
agine  that  his  wife  preferred  another  man — he  was 
too  ascendant  in  his  own  estimation  to  harbor  the 
thought.  Logic,  simple,  plain  common  sense,  for 
bade  the  conclusion.  She  had  thrown  this  man  over 
for  him  years  ago  at  the  first  summons.  He  did 
not  esteem  his  wealth  as  the  lure;  it  was  only  an 
incident  of  his  other  superlative  advantages.  She 
had  not  seen  the  discarded  lover  since,  yet  from  the 
moment  of  the  appearance  of  the  facsimile  brother 
was  inaugurated  a  change  in  her  manner,  her  con 
versation,  the  very  look  in  her  eyes,  which  he  could 
not  explain,  except  as  the  result  of  old  associations 
which  he  did  not  share,  antagonistic  to  his  interest 
and  his  domestic  peace. 

She  had  very  blandly  explained  on  the  first  oppor 
tunity,  volunteering  the  communication,  indeed,  the 
mystery  of  the  return  of  the  key — an  old  gage 
d' amour,  a  trifle — the  slightness  of  which  he  mentally 
conceded,  for  he  had  large  ideas  in  bijouterie.  She 
did  not  wish  to  keep  it,  nor  to  send  it  back  without 
explanation;  in  fact,  she  was  not  willing  to  return  it 
at  all  except  in  her  husband's  presence. 

"Dear  me,  you  need  not  have  been  so  particular," 
282 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

he  declared  cavalierly.     "A  matter  of  no  impor 


tance." 


She  had  magnified  it  in  her  fear  of  him  till 
it  loomed  great  and  menacing.  She  felt  cheapened 
and  crestfallen  by  his  manner  of  receiving  the  dis 
closure.  Yet  he  had  marked  the  occurrence,  she  was 
sure;  he  had  resented  it — though  he  now  flouted  it 
as  a  trifle.  This  added  to  her  respect  for  him,  and 
it  riveted  the  fetters  in  which  he  held  her. 

The  inauguration  of  the  suit  to  rip  up  and  annul 
the  ancient  foreclosure,  the  many  irritating  ques 
tions  as  to  whether  the  lapse  of  time  could  be 
pleaded  in  bar  of  the  remedy,  whether  disabilities 
could  be  brought  forward  to  affect  the  operation  of 
the  statute  of  limitations,  what  line  of  attack  would 
be  pursued  by  the  Ducie  brothers,  all  wrought  him 
almost  to  a  frenzy.  He  could  scarcely  endure  even 
canvassing  with  his  lawyers  the  points  of  his  ad 
versary's  position.  Any  intimation  of  the  develop 
ment  of  possible  strength  on  their  part  affected  him 
like  the  discovery  of  disloyalty  in  his  counsel.  More 
than  once  the  senior  of  these  gentlemen  saw  fit  to 
explain  that  this  effort  to  probe  the  possibilities,  to 
foresee  and  provide  against  the  maneuvers  of  the 
enemy,  to  weigh  the  values  in  their  favor,  was  not 
the  result  of  conviction,  but  merely  to  ascertain  the 
facts  in  the  case. 

The  counsel,  in  closer  conference  still,  closeted 
together,  canvassed  in  surprise  and  disaffection  the 
difficulty  of  handling  their  client,  and  the  best 
method  of  avoiding  rousing  from  his  lair  the  slum 
bering  lion  of  his  temper.  It  was  a  case  involving 
so  much  opportunity  of  distinction,  of  professional 
display,  as  well  as  heavy  fees,  that  they  were  loath 


284       THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

to  risk  public  discomfiture  because  Mr.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney  was  prone  to  gnash  his  teeth  at  a  mere  inquiry 
which  bore  upon  one  of  the  many  sensitive  points 
with  which  the  case  seemed  to  bristle.  He  was  as 
prickly  as  a  porcupine,  and  to  stroke  him  gently  re 
quired  the  deftness  of  a  conjurer.  At  the  most  un 
expected  junctures  this  proclivity  of  sudden  rage,  of 
unaccountable  discomfiture  broke  forth,  amazing  and 
harassing  the  counsel,  who,  with  all  their  perspi 
cacity,  could  not  perceive,  lurking  in  the  background 
of  Floyd-Rosney's  consciousness,  the  mirage  of  his 
wife's  ancient  romance,  more  especially  as  he  him 
self  could  not  justify  its  formulation  on  the  horizon. 
As  Floyd-Rosney  was  accustomed  to  handle  large 
business  interests  and  was  ordinarily  open  to  any 
proposition  of  a  practical  nature,  conservative  in  his 
views,  and  close  and  accurate  in  his  calculation  of 
chances,  his  attitude  in  this  matter  mystified  his  co 
adjutors,  who  had  had  experience  hitherto  in  his 
affairs  and  were  versed  in  his  peculiar  characteristics. 
The  legal  firm  had  come  to  avoid  speaking  of  any 
point  that  might  redound  to  the  advantage  of  the 
opponent,  unless,  indeed,  there  was  some  bit  of  in 
formation  necessary  to  secure  from  Floyd-Rosney. 
Thus  matters  had  been  going  more  smoothly,  save 
that  he  was  wont  to  come  to  the  conferences  with 
his  counsel  bearing  always  a  lowering  brow  and 
a  smoldering  fire  in  his  surly,  brown  eyes.  It  flared 
into  open  flame  when  one  day  Mr.  Stacey,  the  senior 
counsel,  observed: 

"They  will,  doubtless,  call  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney." 
The  client  went  pale  for  a  moment,  then  his  face 
turned  a  deep  purplish  red.     Twice  he  sought  to 
speak  before  he  could  enunciate  a  word. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        285 

"Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,"  he  sputtered  at  length. 
"As  their  witness?  It  is  monstrous !  I  will  not  suf 
fer  it!  It  is  monstrous  1" 

"Oh,  no;  not  at  all." 

Mr.  Stacey  had  a  colorless,  clear-cut  face  of  the 
thin,  hatchet-like  type.  His  straight  hair,  originally 
of  some  blonde  hue,  had  worn  sparse,  and  neither 
showed  the  tint  of  youth  nor  demanded  the  respect 
due  to  the  bleach  of  age.  It  seemed  wasted  out.  He 
was  immaculately  groomed  and  was  very  spare;  he 
looked,  somehow,  as  if  in  due  process  of  law  he  had 
been  ground  very  sharp,  and  had  lost  all  extraneous 
particles.  There  seemed  nothing  of  Mr.  Stacey  but 
a  legal  machine,  very  cleverly  invented,  and,  as  he 
sat  in  his  swivel  chair,  his  thin  legs  crossed,  he  turned 
a  bit  from  his  desk,  intently  regarding  Mr.  Floyd- 
Rosney,  who  was  thrown  back  in  a  cushioned  arm 
chair  beside  him,  flanked  by  the  great  waste-paper 
basket,  containing  the  off-scourings  of  the  lawyer's 
desk.  Mr.  Stacey's  light  gray  eyes  narrowed  as  he 
gazed, — he  was  beginning  to  see  into  the  dark  pur 
lieus  of  his  client's  reasonless  conduct. 

"Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  is  perfectly  competent  to  tes 
tify  in  the  case."  Mr.  Stacey  wore  a  specially  glit 
tering  set  of  false  teeth  which  made  no  pretense  to 
nature,  but  gave  effect  to  his  clear-clipped  enuncia 
tion.  "Her  deposition  will  certainly  be  taken  by 
them." 

"As  against  her  husband?"  foamed  Floyd-Rosney 
in  vehement  argument.  "She  can  be  introduced  by 
her  husband  to  testify  in  his  behalf,  but  not  against 
him,  except  in  her  own  interest,  as  you  know  right 
well." 

"That  incompetency  is  limited  to  the  Mississippi 


286        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

law  as  regards  third  persons,  in  the  case  of  hus 
band  and  wife.  But  in  the  proceedings  in  reference 
to  the  Tennessee  property  the  local  statutes  will  ob 
tain, — she  can  testify  against  her  husband's  interest 
and,  in  my  opinion,  will  be  constrained  to  do  this." 
After  this  succinct,  dispassionate  statement  Mr. 
Stacey  paused  for  a  moment;  then,  in  response 
to  Floyd-Rosney's  stultified  bovine  stare,  as  in 
speechless  amazement,  he  went  on  with  a  tang  of  im 
patience  in  his  tone.  "Why,  you  know,  of  course, 
there  is  a  bit  of  Tennessee  property  involved, — that 
small  business  house  in  South  Memphis, — I  forget, 
for  the  moment,  the  name  of  the  street.  You  are 
aware  that  in  the  foreclosure  proceedings  nearly 
forty  years  ago  the  plantation  and  mansion  house 
of  Duciehurst  were  bid  in  for  the  estate  of  the  mort 
gagee,  but  as  the  amount  of  the  highest  bid  at  the 
sale  did  not  equal  the  indebtedness  in  the  shrunken 
condition  of  real  estate  values  at  that  time,  the  ex 
ecutors  pursued  and  subjected  other  property  of  the 
mortgagor  for  the  balance  due,  this  Tennessee  hold 
ing  being  a  part  of  it,  and  the  Ducies  now  contend 
that  the  debt  having  been  previously  fully  satisfied 
and  paid  in  full,  this  whole  proceeding  was  null  and 
void  from  the  beginning.  They  bring  suit  for  all 
in  sight.  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  can  testify  in  their  in 
terest  under  the  Tennessee  statutes." 

Floyd-Rosney  sprang  up  and  strode  across  the 
room,  coming  flush  against  the  waste-paper  basket 
as  he  threw  himself  once  more  into  his  chair,  over 
turning  the  papers  and  scattering  them  about  the 
floor.  He  took  no  notice  of  them,  but  the  tidy  Stacey 
glanced  down  at  the  litter,  though  with  an  inscrutable 
eye. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        287 

"Oh,  I'll  get  her  out  of  the  country.  They  shall 
not  have  her  testimony.  They  shall  not  call  her 
as  their  witness.  She  has  been  wanting  a  trip  to 
the  Orient — she  shall  go — at  once — at  once!" 

Mr.  Stacey  very  closely  and  critically  examined 
a  paper  knife  that  had  been  lying  on  the  table.  Then, 
putting  it  down,  he  rejoined,  without  looking  at 
Floyd-Rosney,  who  was  scarcely  in  case  to  be  seen, 
the  veins  of  his  forehead  swollen  and  stiff,  his  face 
apoplectically  red,  his  eyes  hot  and  angry:  "They 
can  have  her  deposition  taken  in  a  foreign  country." 

"If  they  can  find  her,"  said  Floyd-Rosney  in  pro 
phetic  triumph.  "But  they  would  not  take  the  time 
for  that" 

"Why,  you  don't  reflect,"  said  the  lawyer  very 
coolly,  "the  cause  may  not  come  to  trial  for  two  or 
three  years.  In  view  of  the  usual  delays,  continu 
ances  and  the  like,  you  could  not  expatriate  her  for 
that  length  of  time." 

Floyd-Rosney's  face  was  a  mask  of  stubborn  con 
viction  as  he  replied: 

"The  Ducies  will  want  to  race  the  matter  through. 
They  claim  that  they  and  their  predecessors  have 
been  wrongfully  kept  out  of  their  own  for  forty 
years.  They  will  think  that  is  long  enough.  I  won't 
make  delays.  The  question  is  a  legal  one,  and  can 
be  decided  on  the  jump — yes  or  no.  The  case  can 
come  to  trial  at  the  April  term  of  the  court,  and  by 
that  time  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  will  be  in  Jerusalem 
or  Jericho." 

uThis  will  damage  your  position  in  the  case,  Mr. 
Floyd-Rosney,"  urged  the  lawyer.  "I  think,  myself, 
that  it  is  a  particularly  valuable  point  for  you  that 
it  should  be  your  wife,  who,  at  considerable  risk  and 


THE    STORY    OP   DUCIEHURST 

in  a  very  dramatic  manner,  discovered  and  secured 
these  family  jewels  and  papers,  knowing  what  they 
were  and  that  they  threatened  the  title  of  her  hus 
band,  and  restored  them  to  the  complainants.  It 
proves  your  good  faith  in  your  title — the  foreclosure 
of  the  mortgage  in  ignorance  of  the  outstanding  re 
lease.  Your  wife  as  their  witness  is  a  valuable  wit 
ness  for  us,  and  the  motives  of  your  contention  being 
thus  justified  there  remains  nothing  but  the  ques 
tion  of  title  to  come  before  the  court." 

"All  that  rigamarole  can  be  proved  by  other  wit 
nesses,"  said  Floyd-Rosney  doggedly.  "There  were 
twenty  people  who  saw  her  come  bouncing  down  the 
stairs  with  the  box  and  give  it  to  Adrian  Ducie." 

There  is  a  species  of  anger  expressed  in  unbecom 
ing  phraseology.  Mr.  Stacey  made  no  sign,  but  the 
words  "rigamarole,"  applied  to  his  own  lucid  pre 
lection,  and  "bouncing"  to  the  gait  of  the  very  ele 
gant  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  did  not  pass  unnoted. 

"I  am  sure  the  case  on  neither  side  can  be  ready 
for  the  April  term, — the  docket  is  crowded  and 
there  is  always  the  possibility  of  continuances." 

"There  are  to  be  no  continuances  on  our  side," 
declared  Floyd-Rosney,  both  glum  and  stubborn;  "I 
don't  choose  that  my  wife  shall  testify  in  their  in 
terest.  She  goes  to  the  Orient,  and  stays  there  till 
the  testimony  is  all  in  and  the  case  closed." 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  season  had  opened  in  a  whirl  of  social  ab 
sorption  for  Paula,  once  more  established  in  their 
city  house  for  the  winter.  She  had  never  known 
her  husband  so  interested  in  these  functions  nor  so 
solicitous  that  her  entertainments  should  be  char 
acterized  by  a  species  of  magnificence  that  would 
once  have  dazzled  and  delighted  her,  but  that  now 
seemed  only  to  illustrate  his  wealth  and  predomi 
nance.  He  was  critical  and  fretful  because  of  small, 
very  small,  deficiencies,  as — some  flower  being  un 
attainable  that  one  less  costly  should  be  used  in 
decoration,  or  a  shade  of  an  electrolier  being  broken 
that  another,  dissimilar  to  the  rest  in  design,  should 
be  temporarily  substituted.  Her  own  toilets  were 
submitted  to  his  scrutiny  and  preference,  and  when 
she  revolted,  saying  that  she  knew  far  more  of  such 
matters  than  he  did,  he  lapsed  into  surly  dissatisfac 
tion.  Once  he  spoke  of  a  costume  of  delicate,  chaste 
elegance  as  "common" — "nothing  on  it."  Then  he 
added  significantly,  "You  ought  to  have  married  a 
poor  man,  Paula,  if  that  is  your  taste." 

She  held  the  gown  up  when  she  was  disrobing 
afterward  and  examined  its  points.  She  saw  that 
the  effect  could  have  been  duplicated  in  simple  ma 
terials  costing  a  trifle;  thus  beautifully  and  grace 
fully  could  she  have  gowned  herself  if  she  had  mar 
ried  a  poor  man  as  once  she  had  thought  to  do. 

Of  her  own  initiative  she  could  not  have  given  the 
289 


290        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

series  of  dinners  of  which  the  lavish  richness  as 
tonished,  as  was  intended,  the  guests,  and  of  which, 
strangely  enough,  she  was  tired  before  they  began. 
More  than  once,  as  she  took  up  her  position  beside 
her  husband  in  the  glittering  drawing-room,  hear 
ing  the  approach  of  the  first  of  the  guests,  he  said 
to  her  in  a  low  voice,  the  tone  like  a  pinch :  "Don't 
seem  so  dull,  Paula — you  have  gone  off  awfully  in 
your  looks  lately,  and  that  gown  is  no  good.  For 
Heaven's  sake  be  more  animated,  and  not  so  much 
like  a  rag  doll."  It  was  poor  preparation  to  meet 
the  coterie  of  men  and  women  keyed  to  a  high  pitch 
of  effort  toward  charm  and  brilliancy,  as  doing  honor 
to  the  occasion,  their  hosts,  and  themselves.  A  large 
ball  was  also  among  the  functions  he  planned,  to 
be  given  in  compliment  to  Hildegarde  Dean,  whose 
beauty  he  affected  to  admire  extravagantly.  He  had 
remembered  his  wife's  obvious  jealousy  of  her  at 
tractions  when  Randal  Ducie  had  seemed  interested 
and  delighted,  and  it  did  not  soothe  his  unquiet  spirit 
to  note  that  now  she  had  no  grudging,  but  joined 
ardently  in  making  the  festivity  a  great  success  and 
an  elaborate  tribute  to  the  reigning  belle  and  beauty. 
She  was  required  to  invite  the  wives  of  certain  men 
whom  he  desired  to  compliment, — yet  who  were  not 
of  his  list  of  dinner  guests, — to  luncheons,  and  teas, 
and  afternoon  receptions,  till  she  was  tired  out  with 
the  meaningless  routine  and  sick  at  heart.  Yet  this 
was  what  she  had  craved — all  her  dream  come  true, 
pressed  down  and  running  over.  Why  had  it  no 
longer  an  interest  for  her?  Was  it  sheer  satiety,  or 
was  it  that  naught  is  of  value  when  love  has  flown. 
And  it  had  gone — even  such  poor  semblance  as  had 
worn  its  name  had  vanished.  She  could  not  delude 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        291 

herself,  though  she  might  make  shift  to  masquerade 
in  such  wise  that  he  should  not  know.  She  hoped 
for  this,  for  she  had  begun  to  fear  him.  He  was 
so  arrogant,  so  self-sufficient,  so  dominant,  so  coer 
cive.  She  feared  his  frown,  his  surly  slumbrous 
eyes,  his  hasty  outbursts  of  gusty  temper. 

One  evening  in  this  arid  existence,  this  feast  of 
dead-sea  fruit,  there  was  on  hand  no  social  duty — 
the  pretty  phrase  for  the  empty  frivolity — and  she 
was  glad  of  it.  It  was  a  gala  night  at  the  opera, 
for  a  star  of  distinction  was  to  sing  in  a  Wag- 
nerian  role,  and  the  Floyd-Rosneys  would  occupy 
their  box,  according  to  their  habit  when  aught  worth 
while  was  billed.  She  was  dressed  for  the  occasion 
and  awaiting  him  in  the  library,  but  he  had  not  yet 
come  in.  She  was  more  placid  than  her  wont  of  late, 
for  she  realized  that  it  would  rest  her  nerves  to  be 
still  and  listen,  a  respite,  however  brief,  from  the 
tiresome  round;  and  she  had  just  come  from  the  nur 
sery  where  the  baby  was  being  put  to  bed — very 
playful,  and  freakish,  and  comical.  She  had  been 
laughing  with  him,  and  at  him,  and  the  glow  of  this 
simple  happiness  was  still  warm  in  her  heart  when 
the  door  opened  and  her  husband  entered.  He  was 
not  yet  dressed  for  the  evening,  and,  as  she  looked 
her  surprise,  he  responded  directly: 

"No, — we  are  not  going." 

He  often  changed  his  plans  thus,  regardless  of 
her  preferences,  and  she  had  grown  so  plastic  to  his 
will  that  she  was  able  to  readjust  her  evening  or  her 
day  without  regard  to  her  previous  expectations. 

The  spacious  room  might  have  seemed  the  ideal 
expression  of  a  home  of  culture  and  affluence.  The 
walls  were  lined  with  books  from  floor  to  ceiling,  un- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

broken  save  where  a  painting  of  value  and  distinction 
was  inserted,  special  favorites  of  their  owner,  and 
placed  here  where  his  eyes  might  constantly  rest 
upon  them,  rather  than  consigned  to  the  gallery  of 
his  art  treasures.  The  furniture  was  all  of  a  fashion 
illustrating  the  extremity  of  luxury, — such  soft  cush 
ions,  such  elastic  springs,  such  deep  pile  into  which 
the  feet  sunk  treading  the  Oriental  rugs.  Not  a 
sound  from  the  street  nor  from  any  portion  of  the 
house  could  penetrate  this  choice  seclusion,  and  over 
the  fireplace,  where  the  hickory  logs  flared  genially, 
the  legend  "Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here?" 
was  especially  accented  by  a  finely  sculptured  statue 
of  'Silence,  her  finger  on  her  lip,  which  stood  on  its 
pedestal  at  a  little  distance  from  the  deep  bay  of  a 
window. 

The  beautiful  woman,  in  the  blended  radiance  of 
the  electric  light  and  the  home-like  blaze,  seemed  as 
one  of  the  favored  of  the  earth.  She  had  dressed 
with  great  care,  and  her  gown  of  lavender  gauze 
over  satin  of  the  same  shade,  with  a  string  of  fine 
pearls  about  her  throat  and  another  in  her  fair  hair, 
could  scarcely  have  incurred  his  unfavorable  criti 
cism.  Her  gloves  of  the  same  tint  lay  ready  on  the 
table  and  an  evening  cloak  of  white  brocaded  satin 
hung  over  a  chair.  Great  pains  and  some  time  such 
a  toilette  cost;  but  she  had  learned  never  to  count 
trouble  if  peace  might  ensue. 

She  was  prepared  to  be  left  in  ignorance  of  his 
reason  for  a  change  of  plans,  but  he  seemed,  this 
evening,  disposed  to  explain.  He  came  and  stood 
opposite  to  her,  one  hand  lifted  on  the  shelf  of  the 
massive  mantelpiece,  while  he  held  his  hat  with  the 
pther.  He  was  still  in  his  overcoat,  its  collar  and 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        293 

lining  of  fur  bringing  out  in  strong  relief  the  ad 
mirable  points  of  his  handsome  face,  its  red  and 
white  tints,  the  brilliancy  of  his  full  lordly  eyes,  the 
fine  shade  of  his  chestnut  hair.  He  was  notably 
splendid  this  evening,  vitally  alert,  powerful  of  as 
pect,  yet  graceful,  all  the  traits  of  his  manly  beauty 
finished  with  such  minutely  delicate  detail.  She  no 
ticed  the  embellishment  of  his  aspect,  as  if  the  evi 
dent  quickening  of  his  interest  in  some  matter  had 
enhanced  it,  and  she  remembered  a  day — long  ago, 
it  seemed,  foolish  and  transient — when  she  had  had 
a  proud  possessory  sentiment  toward  this  fair  outer 
semblance  of  the  identity  within,  so  little  known  to 
her  then,  so  overwhelming  all  other  attributes  of  his 
personality. 

She  did  not  ask  a  question — she  was  too  well 
trained  by  experience.  He  would  tell  her  if  he 
would;  if  not,  it  was  futile  to  speculate  as  to  his  in 
tentions. 

"Well,  the  Oriental  tour  is  un  fait  accompli"  he 
said,  smiling.  "You  sail  within  the  week." 

She  started  in  surprise.  She  had  definitely  been 
denied  this  desire,  which  she  had  once  harbored,  on 
the  score  of  all  others  most  seemingly  untenable — 
expense.  But  it  was  her  husband's  habit  to  make 
everything  inordinately  costly.  He  would  not  ap 
pear  in  public  except  en  prince,  nor  travel  abroad 
save  with  a  most  elaborate  and  extensive  itinerary 
and  a  suite  of  attendants. 

"This  week — why — I  don't  know "  she  hesi 
tated.  "I  suppose — I  can  get  ready." 

"Oh,  you  will  scarcely  need  any  preparation,"  he 
said  cavalierly.  "Any  old  things  will  answer." 

This  was  so  out  of  character  with  his  wonted  so- 


294        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

licitude  in  small  matters  that  she  was  surprised  and 
vaguely  agitated.  She  saw  a  quiver  in  the  tip  of  her 
dainty  lavender  slipper,  extended  on  a  hassock  before 
her  in  the  relaxed  attitude  she  had  occupied,  and  she 
withdrew  it  that  the  disquietude  of  her  nerves  might 
not  be  noticed.  She  raised  herself  to  an  upright  pos 
ture  in  her  chair  before  she  replied  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone. 

"I  wasn't  alluding  to  dress.  What  I  am  wearing 
here  will  answer,  of  course — but  I  was  thinking  of 
the  arrangements  for  the  nurse.  Will  we  take  his 
old  colored  nurse,  or  do  you  suppose  she  would  not 
be  equal  to  the  requirements  of  the  trip?  Had  Elise 
better  go  in  her  place?" 

"Oh,  that  cuts  no  ice.  For  the  baby  won't  go  at 
all,"  he  replied,  as  simply  as  if  this  were  an  obvious 
conclusion. 

She  sat  petrified  for  one  moment.  Then  she 
found  her  voice — loud  and  strong  and  definite. 

"The  baby  won't  go!"  she  exclaimed.  "Then  I 
won't  go — not  one  foot!  What  do  you  take  me 
for?" 

"For  a  sensible  woman,"  he  retorted. 

He  looked  angry,  as  always,  when  opposed,  but 
not  surprised.  He  had  evidently  anticipated  her  ob 
jection,  and  he  controlled  himself  with  care  unusual 
to  his  ungoverned  temper.  "Who  wants  to  go  drag 
ging  a  child  three  years  old  all  around  Europe  and 
the  Holy  Land!  You  won't  be  gone  more  than  a 
year!" 

"A  year!  Why,  Edward — are  you  crazy?  To 
think  I  would  leave  the  baby  for  a  year!  No — nor 
a  month !  No — nor  a  day !  He  has  scarcely  been 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        295 

out  of  my  sight  for  two  hours  together  since  he  was 
born." 

"How  many  women  leave  their  children  to  take  a 
trip  abroad,"  he  argued,  and  she  began  to  feel 
vaguely  that  he  would  much  prefer  that  she  should 
agree  peaceably — he  was  even  willing  to  exert  such 
self-control  as  was  necessary  to  persuade  her. 

"Never — never  would  I,"  she  declared,  "and  he 
would  be  miserable  without  me." 

"Not  with  me  here,"  her  husband  urged.  "He  is 
pleased  to  regard  me  with  considerable  favor." 
And  he  bent  upon  her  his  rare,  intimate,  confidential 
smile. 

For,  unknown  to  him,  she  had  been  at  great  pains 
to  build  up  a  sort  of  idolatry  of  his  father  in  the 
breast  of  the  little  boy,  such  as  children  usually  feel 
without  prompting.  He  was  taught  to  disregard 
Floyd-Rosney's  averse,  selfish  inattention,  to  rejoice 
and  bask  in  the  sun  of  his  favor,  to  run  to  greet  him 
with  pretty  little  graces,  to  admire  him  extravagantly 
as  the  finest  man  in  all  the  world,  to  regulate  his  in 
fantile  conduct  by  the  paternal  prepossessions,  being 
stealthily  rewarded  by  his  mother  whenever  his  wiles 
attained  the  meed  of  praise. 

Paula  looked  dazed,  bewildered. 

"You  know,  dearest,  I  am  held  here  by  the  pres 
sure  of  that  villainous  lawsuit,  and  as  it  will  absorb 
all  my  leisure  I  thought  that  now  is  your  chance  for 
your  Oriental  tour — for  I  really  don't  care  to  go 
again,  and  you  may  never  have  another  oppor 
tunity." 

He  paused,  somewhat  at  a  loss.  She  was  leaning 
forward,  gazing  at  him  searchingly. 

"What  can  possess  you  to  imagine  for  one  mo- 


296        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

ment  that  I  would  go  without  the  boy  1  What  is  the 
Orient  to  me — or  my  silly  fad  for  Eastern  travel! 
I  wish  my  tongue  had  been  withered  before  I  ever 
spoke  the  word!" 

"Why,  you  talk  as  if  I  were  proposing  something 
amazing — abnormally  brutal.  Don't  other  women 
leave  their  children?" 

"But  with  their  mothers,  or  some  one  who  stands 
in  that  tender,  solicitous  relation, — and  I  have  no 
mother!"  Her  words  ended  in  a  wail. 

"But  he  will  be  with  me — and  surely  I  care  for 
him  as  much  as  you  do,"  he  argued,  vehemently. 

"But  why  can't  I  take  him  with  me,"  she  sought 
to  adjust  the  difficulty,  "even  though  the  pleasure  of 
the  trip  is  lost  if  you  don't  go?" 

"Because — because,"  he  hesitated.  "Because  I 
cannot  bear  the  separation  from  him,"  he  declared 
bluntly.  "I  am  afraid  something — I  don't  know 
what — might  happen  to  him.  I  know  I  am  a  fool. 
I  couldn't  bear  it." 

His  folly  went  to  her  heart  in  his  behalf  as  noth 
ing  else  could  have  done.  This  evidence  of  his  love 
for  the  child,  his  son  and  hers,  atoned  for  a  thousand 
slights  and  tyrannies  which  she  forgave  on  the  spot. 
Her  brow  cleared,  her  face  relaxed,  her  cheek 
flushed. 

"Aha !"  she  cried  jubilantly,  "you  know  how  it 
feels,  too !"  She  gleefully  shook  her  fan  at  him. 
"We  will  let  the  trip  to  the  Orient  drop,  now  and 
forever.  I  can't  go  without  little  Edward,  and 
you" — she  gave  him  a  radiant,  rallying  smile — "can't 
spare  him,  so  we  will  just  stay  at  home  and  see  as 
much  of  each  other  as  the  old  lawsuit  will  let  you. 
And  what  I  want  to  know,"  she  added,  with  a  touch 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        297 

of  indignation,  "is,  why  do  those  lawyers  of  yours 
allow  the  matter  to  harass  you?  It  is  their  busi 
ness  to  take  the  care  of  it  off  your  shoulders." 

He  stood  silent  throughout  this  speech,  changing 
expressions  flitting  across  his  face,  but  it  hardened 
upon  the  allusion  to  the  lawsuit  and  his  vacillation 
solidified  into  resolve. 

"Come,  Paula,  this  talk  is  idle;  the  matter  is  ar 
ranged.  The  Hardingtons  start  for  New  York  to 
morrow,  and  sail  as  soon  as  they  strike  the  town. 
Mrs.  Hardington  says  she  will  be  enchanted  to  have 
you  of  her  party,  and  I  have  telegraphed  and  re 
ceived  an  answer  engaging  your  stateroom  on  the 
ship.  Your  section  in  the  Pullman  is  also  reserved, 
— couldn't  get  the  stateroom  on  the  train — already 
taken,  hang  it." 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  gazing  at  him 
with  a  sort  of  averse  amazement,  once  more  pale 
and  agitated,  and  with  a  strange  difficulty  of  articu 
lation.  "Why,  Edward,  what  do  you  mean?  Why 
should  you  want  to  get  me  out  of  the  country? 
There's  something  behind  all  this,  evidently."  She 
noted  that  he  winced  by  so  slight  a  token  as  the 
flicker  of  an  eyelash.  "You  know  that  I  would  not 
consent  to  go  without  my  child  for  any  earthly  con 
sideration." 

"I  know  no  such  thing,  as  I  have  told  you,"  he 
retorted  hotly.  "The  arrangements  are  all  made. 
Your  passage  is  taken.  I  have  ready  your  letter  of 
credit.  I  do  think  you  are  the  most  ungrateful 
wretch  alive,"  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes  aglow  with 
anger.  "A  beautiful  and  costly  trip,  that  you  have 
longed  for,  planned  out  for  you  in  every  detail,  and 
you "  he  broke  off  with  a  gesture  of  repudiation. 


298        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"I  wouldn't  be  separated  from  my  child  for  one 
night  for  all  the  jauntings  about  the  globe  that  could 
be  devised,"  she  declared. 

Floyd-Rosney  suddenly  lost  all  self-control. 
"Well,  you  certainly  will  be  separated  from  him  for 
one  night — for  many  nights, — for  he  is  gone!" 

"Gone?"  She  sprang  forward  with  a  shriek  and 
started  toward  the  door.  Then  with  a  desperate  ef 
fort  to  compose  herself  she  paused  even  in  the  atti 
tude  of  flight.  "For  God's  sake,  Edward,  where 
has  he  gone?  What  do  you  mean?" 

"He  has  been  sent  to  the  place  where  I  propose 
to  have  him  cared  for  in  your  absence.  Knowing 
that  your  time  is  short  I  tried  to  smooth  the  way." 

"But  where?— where?" 

"Where  you  shall  not  know, — you  shall  not  fol 
low.  You  may  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  take 
the  trip." 

She  seemed  taller,  to  tower,  as  she  drew  herself 
up  in  her  wrath,  standing  on  the  threshold  in  the 
ghastly  incongruity  of  her  festival  evening  gown  and 
her  tragic  face.  "Oh,  you  brute!"  she  shrilled  at 
him.  "You  fiend!" 

Then  she  turned  and  fled  through  the  great  square 
hall  and  up  the  massive  staircase  to  the  nursery  that 
she  had  quitted  so  lately,  that  had  been  so  full  of 
cheer  and  cosy  comfort  and  infantile  laughter  and 
caresses. 

The  room  was  empty  now.  The  fire  was  low  in 
the  grate,  seen  through  the  bars  of  the  high  fender 
that  kept  the  little  fellow  from  danger  of  contact 
with  the  flames.  The  dull,  spiritless,  red  glow  of 
the  embers  enabled  her  to  discern  the  switch  to  turn 
on  the  electric  light,  and  instantly  the  apartment 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        299 

sprang  into  keen  visibility.  The  bed  was  vacant,  the 
coverlets  disarranged  where  the  child  had  been  taken 
thence,  doubtless  after  he  had  fallen  asleep.  The 
drawers  of  the  bureau,  the  doors  of  the  wardrobe 
stood  ajar,  the  receptacles  ransacked  of  all  his  little 
garments,  his  hats  and  shoes.  Evidently  a  trunk  had 
been  packed  in  view  of  a  prolonged  absence  while 
she  had  sat  downstairs  in  the  library,  all  unconscious 
of  the  machinations  in  progress  against  her  in  her 
own  home.  She  was  numb  with  the  realization  of 
the  tremendous  import  of  the  situation.  She  could 
not  understand  the  motive — she  only  perceived  the 
fact.  It  was  her  husband's  scheme  to  get  her  out  of 
the  country,  and  he  had  fancied  that  he  could  force 
her  to  go  without  her  child.  She  took  no  account  of 
her  grief,  her  fears,  the  surging  anguish  of  separa 
tion.  She  was  saying  to  herself  as  she  turned  into 
her  own  room  adjoining  that  she  must  be  strong  in 
this  crisis  for  the  child's  sake,  as  well  as  her  own. 
She  must  discern  clearly,  and  reason  accurately,  and 
act  promptly  and  without  vacillation.  If  she  should 
remain  here  she  might  be  seized  and  on  some  pre 
text  coerced  into  leaving  the  country  on  that  lovely 
trip  which  he  had  planned  for  her.  She  burst  into 
a  sudden  bitter  laugh,  and  the  sound  startled  her 
into  silence  again.  When  had  her  husband  ever 
planned  aught  for  her  save  to  serve  some  purpose 
of  his  own?  She  would  not  go — she  would  not,  she 
said  over  and  over  to  herself.  Her  determination, 
her  instinct  were  to  ascertain  where  the  child  had 
been  hidden,  and  if  possible  to  capture  him;  if  not 
to  be  near,  on  the  chance  of  seeing  him  sometimes, 
to  watch  over  him,  to  guard  him  from  danger.  In 
her  self-pity  at  this  poor  hope  the  tears  welled  up 


SCO       THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

and  she  shook  with  sobs.  But  on  this  momentary 
collapse  ensued  renewed  strength.  It  might  be,  she 
thought,  she  could  appeal  to  the  law.  She  knew  that 
her  husband's  was  the  superior  claim  to  the  child, 
but  in  view  of  his  tender  years,  his  delicate  health  in 
certain  respects,  might  not  a  court  grant  his  custody 
to  his  mother?  At  all  events  his  restoration  to  her 
care  was  henceforward  her  one  object,  and  if  she 
allowed  herself  to  be  forced  out  of  the  country,  to 
serve  this  unknown,  unimagined  whim  of  her  cruel 
husband's,  she  might  never  see  the  child  again. 

A  knock  at  the  door  startled  her  nerves  like  a  clap 
of  thunder.  A  maid  had  come  to  say  that  dinner 
had  been  served — indeed  the  butler  had  announced 
it  an  hour  ago— and  should  it  still  wait? 

"Have  it  taken  down,"  Paula  said  with  stiff  lips. 
"Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  will  not  dine  at  home." 

For  Paula  had  heard  the  street  door  bang  as  she 
fled  up  the  stairs,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  not  in 
the  house.  The  girl  gazed  at  her  with  a  sharp  point 
of  curiosity  in  her  little  black  eyes  as  she  obsequi 
ously  withdrew.  Despite  the  humility  of  the  man 
ner  of  her  domestics  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  had  not  the 
ascendency  in  her  household  due  a  chatelaine  so  mag 
nificently  placed.  It  was  his  wealth — she  was  an 
appendage.  It  was  his  will  that  ruled,  not  hers.  As 
the  servants  loved  to  remark  to  each  other,  "She  has 
got  no  more  say-so  here  than  me,"  and  the  inse 
curity  of  her  authority  and  the  veneer  of  her  posi 
tion  affected  unfavorably  the  estimation  in  which  she 
was  held.  The  girl  perceived  readily  enough  that  a 
clash  had  supervened  between  the  couple  and  sagely 
opined  that  the  master  would  have  the  best  of  it. 
Below  stairs  they  ascribed  to  it  the  strange  removal 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        301 

of  the  child  at  this  hour  of  the  night  and  the  change 
in  their  employer's  plans  for  the  evening.  Their  un 
restrained  voices  came  up  through  doors  carelessly 
left  ajar,  along  with  the  clatter  of  the  dishes  of  the 
superfluous  dinner,  and  Paula,  with  some  unoccupied 
faculty,  albeit  all  seemed  burdened  to  the  point  of 
breaking  with  her  heavy  thoughts,  realized  that  this 
breach  of  domestic  etiquette  could  never  have 
chanced  had  the  master  of  the  house  been  within  its 
walls. 

As  she  hastily  divested  herself  of  her  dainty  eve 
ning  attire,  with  trembling  fingers  her  spirits  fell,  her 
courage  waned.  No  one  would  heed  her,  she  said  to 
herself.  What  value  would  a  court  attach  to  her 
representations  as  against  the  word  and  the  will  of 
a  man  of  her  husband's  wealth  and  prominence? 
And  how  could  she  expect  aught  of  aid  from  any 
quarter?  She  had  literally  no  individual  position  in 
the  world.  She  had  no  influence  on  her  husband, 
no  real  hold  on  his  heart.  She  could  command  not 
one  moment's  attention,  save  as  his  wife.  Bereft 
of  his  favor  and  countenance  she  would  be  more  of 
a  nullity  than  a  woman,  poor  but  independent,  work 
ing  for  a  weekly  wage.  Truly  Floyd-Rosney  could 
ship  her  out  of  the  country  as  if  she  were  a  mare  or 
a  cow.  Decorum  would  forbid  open  resistance,  for 
indeed  if  she  clamored  and  protested  she  could  be 
sent  with  a  trained  nurse  as  the  victim  of  hysteria 
or  monomania.  She  must  get  away.  Her  liberty 
was  threatened.  Her  will  had  long  been  annulled, 
but  now  she  was  to  be  bodily  bound  and  in  effect 
carried  whither  she  would  not.  Her  liberty,  her 
free  agency  were  at  stake — not  her  life.  Never,  she 


302        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

thought,  would  he  do  a  deed  that  would  react  upon 
himself.     She  must  be  gone — and  swiftly. 

Perhaps  Paula  never  realized  the  extent  of  her 
subjection  until  when  dressed  in  her  dark  coat  suit 
with  hat  and  gloves,  her  suitcase  packed  with  a  few 
indispensable  articles,  she  stood  at  her  dressing  table 
and  opened  her  gold  mesh-bag  with  a  sudden  clutch 
at  her  heart  to  ascertain  what  money  she  might  have. 
Her  white  face,  so  scornful  of  herself,  looked  back 
from  the  mirror,  duplicating  her  bitter  smile.  She 
had  not  five  dollars  in  the  world.  Floyd-Rosney 
never  gave  money  to  his  wife  in  the  raw,  so  to  speak. 
All  her  extravagant  appointments  came  as  it  were 
from  his  hand.  She  could  buy  as  she  would  on  his 
accounts;  she  could  subscribe  liberally  to  charities 
and  public  enterprises  which  he  countenanced,  and 
he  made  her  signature  as  good  as  his,  but  she 
could  never  have  undertaken  the  slightest  plan  of 
her  own  initiative.  She  had  no  command  of  money. 
She  could  not  go — she  could  not  get  away  from 
under  his  hand.  She  was  as  definitely  a  prisoner  as 
if  she  were  behind  the  bars.  Still  looking  scorn 
fully,  pityingly,  distressfully  at  her  pallid  image  in 
the  mirror,  a  strange  thought  occurred  to  her.  She 
wondered  if  she  were  Ran  Ducie's  wife  could  she 
have  been  as  poor  as  this.  But  she  must  go — and 
quickly.  For  one  wild  moment  she  contemplated 
borrowing  from  the  servants  the  sum  she  needed. 
As  she  revolted  at  the  degradation  she  realized  its 
futility.  Their  place  in  his  favor  was  more  secure 
than  hers — her  necessity  attested  the  tenuity  of  her 
position.  They  would  not  lend  money  to  her  in 
order  to  thwart  him.  She  looked  at  the  strings  of 
pearls,  the  gold  mesh-bag,  and  remembered  the 


THE    STORY    OP   BUCIEHURST        303 

pawnbroker.  Once  more  she  shivered  back  from 
her  own  thought.  They  were  not  hers,  for  her  own. 
They  were  for  her  to  wear,  to  illustrate  his  taste, 
his  liberality  to  his  wife,  his  wealth.  She  knew  little 
of  law,  of  life.  This  might  be  an  actual  theft.  But 
she  must  go — and  go  at  once. 

With  her  suitcase  in  her  hand  she  stole  down 
the  stairs  and  softly  let  herself  out  of  the  massive 
front  door,  closing  it  noiselessly  behind  her,  never 
for  a  moment  looking  up  at  the  broad,  tall  facade 
of  the  building  that  had  been  her  home.  She  crossed 
the  street  almost  immediately,  lest  she  encounter  her 
husband  returning  with  his  plans  more  definitely  con 
cluded  and  with  a  more  complete  readiness  to  exe 
cute  them. 

The  night  was  not  cold,  but  bland  and  fresh,  and 
she  felt  the  vague  stir  of  the  breeze  like  a  caress  on 
her  cheek.  The  stars — they  were  strangers  to  her 
now,  so  long  it  had  been  since  she  had  paused  to  look 
upon  them — showed  in  a  dark,  moonless  heaven 
high  above  the  deep  canyon  of  the  street.  She 
walked  rapidly,  despite  the  weight  of  the  suitcase, 
but  so  long  had  it  been  since  she  had  traversed  the 
thoroughfares  on  foot  that  she  had  forgotten  the 
turnings — now  the  affair  of  the  chauffeur — and  once 
she  was  obliged  to  retrace  her  way  for  a  block.  She 
deprecated  the  loss  of  time  and  the  drain  upon  her 
strength,  but  she  was  still  alert  and  active  when  she 
paused  in  the  ladies'  entrance  of  a  hotel  and  stood 
waiting  and  looking  about  with  her  card  in  her  hand. 
Oh,  how  strange  for  her,  accustomed  to  be  so  con 
sidered,  so  attended,  so  heralded!  She  did  not  for 
the  moment  regret  the  coercion  her  splendors  were 


304        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

wont  to  exert.  She  only  wondered  how  best  to  se 
cure  her  object,  if  she  could  not  win  the  attention 
of  the  supercilious  and  reluctant  functionaries  dully 
regarding  her  in  the  distance. 

The  lobby  of  the  ladies'  entrance  opened  upon  the 
larger  space  of  the  office  of  the  hotel,  and  here  in  a 
delicate  haze  of  cigar  smoke  a  number  of  men  were 
standing  in  groups  about  the  tessellated  marble  floor, 
or  seated  in  the  big  armchairs  placed  at  the  base  of 
the  tall  pillars.  As  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  clerk  be 
hind  the  desk  she  placed  her  suitcase  on  the  floor 
and  started  forward,  he  jangled  a  sharp  summons 
on  a  hand  bell,  and  a  bell-boy  detached  himself  from 
the  coterie  that  had  been  nonchalantly  regarding  her, 
and  loungingly  advanced. 

"Will  you  take  that  card  to  Mr.  Randal  Ducie?" 
she  said,  controlling  her  voice  with  difficulty. 

"Ain't  hyar,"  airily  returned  the  darkey.  He 
was  about  to  turn  away  from  this  plainly  dressed 
woman,  who  had  no  claim  on  any  eagerness  of  serv 
ice  when  his  eyes  chanced  to  fall  on  a  token  of  qual 
ity  above  her  seeming  station.  He  suddenly  noted 
the  jeweled  card  case  as  she  returned  the  card  to  it, 
and  the  gold  mesh  bag,  and  he  vouchsafed  pleas 
antly  : 

"I  noticed  myse'f  the  announcement  in  the  eve- 
nin'  paper,  but  it  is  his  brudder  stoppin'  hyar." 

That  moment  her  eyes  fell  upon  Adrian  Ducie 
standing  in  one  of  the  groups  of  men  smoking  in  the 
office.  Her  impulse  was  like  that  of  a  drowning 
creature  clutching  at  a  straw.  Without  an  instant 
of  hesitation,  without  even  a  vague  intention  of  ap 
propriately  employing  the  intermediary  services  of 
the  limp  bell-boy,  with  a  wild,  hysteric  fear  that  a 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        305 

moment's  waiting  would  lose  her  the  opportunity, 
she  dashed  into  the  midst  of  the  office,  and,  speech 
less,  and  pallid,  and  trembling,  she  seized  Adrian  by 
the  arm. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

ADRIAN  DUCIE  looked  in  startled  amazement 
down  into  her  white,  drawn  face  with  its  hollow,  ap 
pealing  eyes,  and  quivering  lips  that  could  not  enun 
ciate  a  word.  He  did  not  recognize  her  for  one 
moment.  Then  his  expression  hardened,  and  his 
gaze  grew  steady.  With  dextrous  fingers  he  took 
his  hat  from  his  head  and  his  cigar  from  his  lips 
with  one  hand,  for  she  held  the  other  arm  with  a 
grip  as  of  steel.  The  moony  luster  of  the  electric 
lights  shone  down  upon  a  scene  as  silent  and  as  mo 
tionless  as  if,  Gorgon-like,  her  entrance  had  stricken 
it  into  stone ;  the  groups  of  men  who  had  been  smok 
ing  standing  about  the  floor,  the  loungers  in  the  arm 
chairs,  the  clerks  behind  the  counter  were  for  the 
moment  as  if  petrified,  blankly  staring. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  Adrian  asked  cour 
teously,  and  the  calm,  clear  tones  of  his  voice  per 
vaded  the  silence  like  the  tones  of  a  bell. 

In  her  keen  sensitiveness  she  noted  the  absence  of 
any  form  of  greeting  or  salutation.  He  would  not 
call  her  name  for  the  enlightenment  of  these  gazing 
strangers  in  this  public  place,  in  the  scene  she  had 
made.  Oh,  how  could  she  have  so  demeaned  her 
self,  she  wondered,  as  to  need  such  protection,  such 
observance  on  his  part  of  the  delicacy  she  had  dis 
regarded.  She  despised  herself  to  have  incurred  the 
necessity,  yet  with  both  her  little  gloved  hands  she 
clung  to  his  arm  with  a  convulsive  strength  of  grasp 

300 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        307 

which  he  could  not  have  shaken  off  without  a  strug 
gle  that  would  have  much  edified  the  gazing  crowd, 
all  making  their  own  inferences  as  to  the  unknown 
significance  of  the  scene.  Such  good  breeding  as  it 
individually  possessed  had  begun  to  assert  itself 
against  the  shock  and  numbing  effects  of  surprise, 
and  there  was  the  sound  of  movement  and  the  mur 
mur  of  resumed  conversation  which  induced  Adrian 
Ducie  to  hope  that  the  one  word  she  suddenly 
gasped  had  not  been  overheard. 

"Randal,"  she  began  in  a  broken  voice,  and  the 
look  in  his  eyes  struck  her  dumb.  They  held  a  spark 
of  actual  fire  that  scorched  every  delicate  sensibility 
within  her.  But  it  was  like  the  ignition  of  a  fuse — 
it  set  the  whole  train  of  gunpowder  into  potentiality. 
With  sudden  intention  he  looked  over  his  shoulder 
and  signaled  to  a  gentleman  at  a  little  distance,  star 
ing,  too,  but  not  in  the  least  recognizing  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney. 

"We  will  go  into  the  reception  room  and  talk  the 
matter  over,"  he  said  decisively.  "Colonel  Ken- 
wynton  will  give  us  the  benefit  of  his  advice." 

Colonel  Kenwynton  had  been  trained  in  the  school 
of  maneuvers  and  strategy.  Off  came  his  hat  from 
his  old  white  head,  and  with  a  resonant  "Certainly! 
Certainly  1"  he  advanced  on  the  other  side  of  Paula, 
who  noticed  that  he  followed  Ducie's  example  and 
did  not  speak  her  name.  "Good  evening,  good  eve 
ning,  madam,  I  trust  I  see  you  well!"  was  surely 
salutation  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  exacting  re 
quirements  of  etiquette. 

Scarcely  able  to  move,  yet  never  for  one  instant 
relaxing  her  hold  on  Ducie's  arm,  she  suffered  her 
self  to  be  led,  half  supported,  to  the  reception  room, 


308        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

where  she  sank  into  an  armchair  while  Ducie  stood 
looking  down  at  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ducie,"  she  cried  plangently,  "I  had 
hoped  to  find  Randal  here — his  arrival  was  in  the 
paper.  I  am  in  such  terrible  trouble,  and  I  know  my 
old  friend  would  feel  for  me.  Oh,  he  loved  me 
once  !  I  know  he  would  help  me  now !" 

"I  will  do  whatever  Randal  could,"  said  Ducie. 
His  voice  was  suave  and  kind,  but  his  face  was  stern, 
and  doubtful,  and  inquiring. 

"Oh,  you  look  so  like  him — you  might  have  a 
heart  like  his.  But  you  are  not  like  him.  Oh,  I  have 
not  another  friend  in  the  world!" 

Adrian  thought  she  had  not  deserved  to  account 
Randal  Ducie  her  friend.  But  this  was  no  occasion 
to  make  nice  and  formal  distinctions.  He  only  said: 

"Randal  is  not  in  town.  But  if  you  will  give  me 
the  opportunity  to  be  of  use  to  you,  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney,  I  will  do  anything  I  can." 

Both  her  auditors  thought  for  a  moment  that  she 
was  insane  when  she  replied: 

"I  want  you  to  lend  me  ten  dollars." 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  glance.  Then  Ducie 
heartily  declared: 

"Why,  that  is  very  easily  done.  But  may  I  ask, 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  what  use  you  wish  to  make  of 
it?" 

He  was  thinking  the  trifling  sum  was  yet  suffi 
cient  to  work  mischief  if  she  were  under  some  tem 
porary  aberration. 

"I  want  to  go  to  my  aunt's  place  in  the  uplands 
of  Mississippi — my  old  home!  Oh,  how  I  wish  I 
had  never  left  it!" 

She  threw  herself  back  in  the  chair  and  pressed 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        309 

her  handkerchief  to  her  streaming  eyes.  "Mr.  Du- 
cie,  I  have  fled  from  my  husband's  house.  He  has 
taken  my  child  from  me — spirited  him  away — and  I 
don't  know  where  he  is,  nor  how  he  will  be  cared 
for.  He  is  only  three  years  old — oh,  just  a  little 
thing!" 

"Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  you  must  control  your 
voice,"  said  Ducie,  embarrassed  and  reluctant.  "I 
hate  to  say  it — but  you  will  bring  the  whole  house 
about  us." 

Once  launched  on  a  recital  of  her  woes  she  had 
acquired  a  capacity  to  arrange  her  ideas,  and  was 
keenly  noting  the  effect  of  her  words.  There  was 
no  alacrity  to  produce  the  money  she  had  requested 
as  a  loan,  corresponding  to  the  prompt  acquiescence 
of  Adrian  Ducie  a  moment  or  so  ago.  She  mar 
veled  in  humble  anxiety,  not  knowing  that  the  two 
men  doubted  her  mental  responsibility,  and  feared 
to  trust  her  with  money. 

Her  griefs,  once  released,  strained  for  expres 
sion,  and  she  went  on  in  a  meek,  muffled  tone  that 
brought  the  tears  to  the  old  Colonel's  pitying  eyes — 
his  heart  had  grown  very  soft  with  advancing  years 
— but  Adrian  Ducie  held  himself  well  in  hand  and 
regarded  her  with  critical  dispassionateness. 

"My  husband  desires,  for  some  reason  which  he 
does  not  explain,  but  which  I  suspect,  to  get  me  out 
of  the  country." 

Once  more  Colonel  Kenwynton  and  Ducie  ex 
changed  a  covert  glance  of  comment. 

"He  has  arranged  an  extensive  European  and 
Oriental  tour  for  me — without  my  child — leaving 
my  child  for  a  year  at  least.  Why,  Colonel  Ken 
wynton,  tell  me  what  would  all  the  glories  of  for- 


SlO       THE    STORY   OP   DUCIEHURST 

eign  capitals  and  all  the  associations  of  Palestine 
count  for  with  me  when  the  one  little  face  that  I 
care  to  see  is  far  away,  and  the  one  little  voice  I 
cannot  hear!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  madam" — the  Colonel  had  a  frog 
in  his  throat — "surely  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  would  not 
insist.  You  must  be  mistaken!" 

"Oh,  it  is  all  arranged — my  passage  taken;  my 
letter  of  credit  ready;  my  party — such  a  gay  party — 
made  up  and  prepared  to  start  to-morrow,  the 
Hardingtons " 

The  Colonel's  face  bore  a  sudden  look  of  convic 
tion. 

"I  recollect  now — it  had  slipped  my  memory — 
Mr.  Charles  Hardington  was  telling  me  this  eve 
ning  of  the  tour  his  family  have  in  contemplation, 
and  he  mentioned  that  they  were  to  have  the  great 
pleasure  of  your  company,  starting  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  but  I  will  not  go  I  I  will  not!"  cried  Paula, 
springing  from  her  chair  and  frantically  clasping 
her  hands.  "I  will  not  go  without  my  child!  If 
you  will  not  help  me  I  will  hide  in  the  streets — but 
he  could  find  me  and — as  I  have  not  one  friend — he 
could  lock  me  up  as  insane!"  She  turned  her  wild 
eyes  from  one  to  the  other.  Then  she  broke  into  a 
jeering  laugh.  "It  would  be  very  easy  in  this  day  to 
prove  a  woman  insane  who  does  not  prefer  the 
tawdry  follies  and  frivolities  of  gadding  and  staring 
through  Europe  with  a  party  of  fashionable  empty- 
pates  to  the  care  and  companionship  of  her  only 
child.  But  I  will  not!  I  will  not  be  shipped  out  of 
the  country!" 

Adrian  Ducie's  face  had  changed.  He  believed 
that  Floyd-Rosney  was  capable  of  any  domestic 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST        311 

tyranny,  but  however  he  moved  the  responsibility 
involved  in  her  appeal  was  great.  He  could  not 
consign  her  to  whatever  fate  might  menace  her. 
Still,  he  dared  not  trust  her  with  money.  She  might 
buy  poison,  she  might  buy  a  pistol. 

"Colonel,  we  must  do  something,"  he  declared. 
Then  he  turned  to  her.  "Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,"  he 
said,  "will  you  permit  us,  instead  of  handing  you  the 
small  amount  you  mentioned,  to  buy  your  ticket  for 
your  aunt's  home  and  see  you  aboard  the  train?" 

In  one  moment  her  face  was  radiant. 

"Oh,  if  you  only  would!  If  you  only  would!  I 
should  bless  and  thank  you  to  the  end  of  my  days!" 

Adrian  Ducie,  with  a  clearing  brow,  crossed  the 
room  and  touched  the  bell.  The  summons  was  an 
swered  so  immediately  as  to  suggest  the  prompting 
of  a  lurking  curiosity. 

"Time-table,"  said  Ducie,  and  when  it  was 
brought  he  rid  himself  of  the  officious  bell-boy  by 
commanding:  "Taxi,  at  the  ladies1  entrance." 

"We  must  be  starting  at  once,"  he  said  to  Paula. 
"We  have  barely  time  to  catch  the  train.  Bring  the 
lady's  suitcase,"  to  the  returning  servant;  and  to  the 
veteran:  "Come,  Colonel,  you  will  kindly  accom 
pany  us." 

Then  they  took  their  way  out  into  the  night. 

Paula  felt  as  if  she  trod  on  air.  It  had  been  so 
long  since  she  had  done  aught  of  her  own  initiative, 
so  little  liberty  had  she  possessed,  even  in  trifles,  that 
it  gave  her  a  sense  of  power  to  be  able  to  carry  any 
plan  of  her  own  device  into  successful  execution.  She 
was  suddenly  hopeful,  calm,  confident  of  her  judg 
ment,  and  restored  to  her  normal  aspect  and  man 
ner.  As  they  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  sidewalk, 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

while  the  cab  came  chugging  to  the  curb,  she  looked 
as  with  the  eyes  of  a  restored  vitality  upon  the  fa 
miliar  surroundings — the  electric  street  lights,  the 
brilliant,  equidistant  points  far  down  the  perspec 
tive,  the  fantastic  illuminated  advertisements,  the 
tall  canyon  of  the  buildings,  the  obstructive  passing 
of  a  clanging,  whirring  street  car,  and  then  she  was 
handed  into  the  vehicle  by  Adrian  Ducie.  The  next 
moment  the  door  banged,  and  she  was  shut  in  with 
the  two  who  she  felt  were  so  judiciously  befriending 
her.  The  taxicab  backed  out  into  the  street  and  was 
off  for  Union  Station  at  a  speed  as  rapid  as  a  liberal 
construction  of  the  law  would  allow. 

There  was  no  word  said,  and  for  that  she  was 
grateful.  Her  eyes  stung  as  if  blistered  by  the  bit 
ter  tears  she  had  shed,  but  not  for  one  moment 
would  she  let  the  restful  lids  fall,  lest  the  face  of 
the  man  before  her  vanish  in  the  awakening  from 
this  dream  of  rescue.  She  watched  the  fluctuations 
of  light  on  Ducie's  countenance  as  the  arc  lamp  at 
every  street  intersection  illuminated  it,  for  she  found 
a  source  of  refreshment  in  its  singular  likeness  to 
the  one  friend,  she  told  herself,  she  had  in  the  world. 
Adrian  would  not  have  lent  himself  as  he  had  done 
to  her  aid,  she  felt  sure,  were  he  not  Randal's 
brother.  She  had  been  vaguely  sensible  of  a  re 
luctance  that  was  to  her  inexplicable,  of  a  reserve  in 
both  the  men  before  her,  that  seemed  to  her  inimical 
to  her  interest.  She  would  venture  no  word  to  jar 
the  accord  they  had  attained. 

When  the  taxicab  drew  up  at  the  Union  Station 
the  glare  of  lights,  the  stir  of  the  place  enthused 
her.  She  was  here  at  last,  on  her  way,  success  al 
most  attained.  She  did  not  share  Ducie's  sudden 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        313 

fever  of  anxiety  in  noting  the  great  outpouring  of 
smoke  from  the  shed  where  the  train  stood  almost 
ready  to  start,  the  resonance  of  its  bell  and  the 
clamors  of  the  exhaust  steam  of  the  engine  already 
beginning  to  jar  the  air.  He  ran  swiftly  up  the  stair 
to  the  ticket  office,  leaving  her  with  Colonel  Kenwyn- 
ton,  and  was  back  almost  immediately,  taking  her 
protectively  by  the  arm  as  he  urged  her  along  into 
the  great  shed.  At  the  gate  she  was  surprised  to  see 
that  he  presented  three  tickets,  but  he  voluntarily 
explained,  not  treating  her  as  an  unreasoning  child, 
as  was  Floyd-Rosney's  habit,  that  he  thought  it  best 
that  he  and  the  Colonel  should  accompany  her  to  the 
first  station,  to  see  her  fairly  clear  of  the  city.  He 
was  saying  this  as  they  walked  swiftly  down  be 
tween  the  many  rows  of  rails  in  the  great  shed  where 
a  number  of  cars  were  standing,  and  the  train  which 
she  was  to  take  was  beginning  to  move  slowly  for 
ward. 

Her  heart  sank  as  she  marked  its  progress,  but 
Ducie  lifted  his  arm  and  signed  eagerly  to  the  con 
ductor  just  mounting  the  front  step  of  the  Pullman. 
The  train  slowed  down  a  bit;  the  stool  was  placed 
by  the  alert  porter,  but  the  step  passed  before  she 
could  put  her  foot  upon  it.  Ducie  caught  her  up 
and  swung  her  to  the  next  platform  as  it  glided  by, 
and  the  two  men  clambered  aboard  as  the  cars  went 
on. 

They  were  laughing  and  elated  as  they  conveyed 
her  into  its  shelter.  Then  a  deep  shade  settled  on 
the  face  of  the  Colonel. 

"Why,  my  dear  madam,  you  have  no  luncheon!" 
He  regarded  the  suitcase  with  reprobation,  as  af- 


5H       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

fording  no  opportunities  of  refreshment,  save  of  the 
toilette. 

"But,  Colonel,  I  don't  lunch  throughout  the 
night/'  she  returned,  with  a  smile.  "I  shall  be  glad 
to  sleep,"  she  added  plaintively. 

The  Colonel  looked  disconsolate  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  took  a  handsome  little  flask  from  his 
pocket.  "With  my  best  compliments,"  he  said. 

"But  I  don't  drink  brandy,  either,"  she  declared, 
strangely  flattered,  "and  I  have  no  pistol  pocket." 

"Tuck  it  in  your  suitcase,"  he  insisted  seriously. 
"Something  might  happen.  You  might — might — 
see  fit  to  faint,  you  know." 

"Oh,  no,  I  never  faint,"  she  protested.  "If  I 
haven't  fainted  so  far  I  shall  hold  my  own  the  rest 
of  the  way." 

As  they  sat  in  the  section  which  Ducie  had  re 
served  for  her  the  Colonel  eyed  him  enigmatically, 
as  if  referring  something  for  his  approval.  Then 
he  said  bluffly: 

"I  am  sorry  I  haven't  the  ten  dollars  which  you 
did  us  the  honor  to  wish  to  borrow.  I  have  nothing 
less  than  a  twenty,  that  you  can  get  changed  by 
the  conductor  and  return  to  me  at  your  good  pleas 
ure.  I'm  getting  rich,  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,"  he 
laughed  gaily,  at  the  incongruity  of  the  jest.  "And 
I  never  carry  anything  but  large  bills." 

He  took  the  little  empty  mesh  bag  from  her  hand 
and  slipped  the  money  in  it,  despite  her  protest  that 
she  had  now  no  need  of  it. 

"It  is  never  prudent  to  travel  without  an  emer 
gency  fund,"  he  opined  sagaciously.  "My  affairs 
are  managed  by  Hugh  Treherne  now,  for  a  share  of 
the  proceeds.  He  did  not  want  any  compensation 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        315 

at  all,  but  I  insisted  on  it.  Wonderful  head  for 
detail  he  has,  Ducie.  I'd  go  to  the  asylum  and  stay 
there  a  term  or  two  if  it  would  educate  me  to  make 
every  edge  cut  as  he  can." 

When  they  had  alighted  on  the  platform  of  the 
first  station  and  stood  lifting  their  hats,  as  her  pale 
face  looked  out  of  the  window  while  the  train  glided 
on,  Colonel  Kenwynton  spoke  his  mind. 

"She  is  as  sane  as  I  am,  and  a  fine,  well-bred 
woman.  She  has  married  a  brute  of  a  husband,  and 
if  I  were  not  such  an  excellent  Christian,  Ducie, 
I  don't  know  what  I  wouldn't  wish  might  happen  to 
him." 

Ducie  said  nothing.  Floyd-Rosney  was  a  dis 
tasteful  subject  that  he  was  averse  to  discuss.  They 
took  their  places  in  the  electric  street  car  which 
would  whisk  them  back  to  town  speedily,  and,  as 
the  train  slowly  backed  on  the  switch,  she  saw  them 
through  the  window,  as  yet  the  sole  occupants  on 
the  return  run. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

IF  Floyd-Rosney's  temper  were  less  imperious, 
if  he  had  had  less  confidence  in  the  dictates  of  his 
will,  which  he  misconstrued  as  his  matured  judg 
ment,  he  could  not  have  so  signally  disregarded  the 
feelings  of  others;  if  only  in  obedience  to  the  dic 
tates  of  policy,  he  could  not  have  been  so  oblivious 
of  the  possibility  of  adverse  action,  successfully  ex 
ploited. 

Maddened  by  his  wife's  revolt  against  his  plans, 
futile  though  he  deemed  it,  he  would  not  await 
her  return  from  the  nursery  whither  she  had  hurried 
to  verify  his  words.  He  burned  with  rage  under  the 
lash  of  her  fiery  denunciation — "Brute! — Fiend!" 
How  dared  she!  He  wondered  that  he  had  not 
beaten  her  with  his  clenched  fists!  He  had  some 
fear  of  being  betrayed  into  violence,  some  doubt  of 
his  own  self-restraint  that  induced  him  to  rush  forth 
into  the  street  and  evade  her  frenzied  jeremiad 
when  she  found  the  child  was  indeed  gone. 

What  a  fool  of  a  woman  was  this,  he  was  arguing 
before  the  banging  of  the  front  door  behind  him 
had  ceased  to  resound  along  the  street.  What  other 
one  would  turn  down  such  a  beautiful  opportunity! 
As  to  leaving  the  child — why,  it  would  have  been 
to  any  except  the  perverse  vixen  he  had  married  one 
of  the  special  advantages  of  the  outing — to  be  free 
for  a  time  of  domestic  cares,  of  maternal  duties. 

316 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        317 

Had  he  not  over  and  over  heard  women  of  her 
station  congratulate  themselves  on  a  "vacation" — 
the  children  loaded  off  on  somebody,  Heaven  knows 
whom,  or  where,  a  matter  of  minor  importance.  It 
was  absolutely  fantastic,  the  idea  of  dragging  a  child 
of  Edward's  age  around  Europe  and  the  Orient 
for  a  year's  travel.  The  very  care  of  him,  the  neces 
sary  solicitude  involved  at  every  move,  would 
destroy  all  possibility  of  pleasure.  The  mere  item 
of  infantile  disorders  was  enough  in  itself  to  nullify 
the  prospect.  And  he  might  die  of  some  of  these 
maladies  in  a  foreign  country,  deprived  of  his 
father's  supervision  and  experience  in  the  ways  of 
the  world. 

Floyd-Rosney's  contention  in  the  matter  seemed  to 
him  eminently  right  and  rational.  It  was  desirable 
that  she  should  not  testify  in  the  suit,  he  could  not 
leave  at  this  crisis,  and  she  could  not  well  take  the 
child  with  her.  He  would  not  risk  his  son  and  heir 
to  the  emergencies,  the  vicissitudes  of  a  year  of 
foreign  travel  under  the  guidance  merely  of  an  in 
experienced  and  careless  woman.  Paula  herself  was 
like  a  child.  He  had  kept  her  so.  Everything  had 
been  done  for  her.  In  any  unforeseen,  disastrous 
chance  she  would  be  utterly  helpless  to  take  judi 
cious  action  and  to  protect  the  child  from  injury. 

Floyd-Rosney  was  not  more  willing  to  be  sep 
arated  from  the  boy  than  the  mother  herself.  He 
had,  indeed,  no  unselfish  love  for  the  child,  but 
his  son's  beauty  and  promise  flattered  his  vanity; 
the  boy  would  be  a  credit  to  his  name.  His  pros 
pects  were  so  brilliant  that  in  twenty  years  there 
would  be  no  young  man  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 
who  could  vie  with  him  in  fortune  and  position. 


318        THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

Floyd-Rosney  had  gloated  on  the  future  of  his  son. 
He  was  glad,  he  often  said,  that  he  was  himself  a 
young  man,  for  he  would  be  but  in  the  prime  of  life 
when  Edward  would  come  to  his  majority.  No  de 
pendent  station  would  be  his — to  eat  from  his 
father's  hand  like  a  fawning  pet.  With  an  altru 
istic  consideration,  uncharacteristic!  of  him,  the 
father  had  made  already  certain  investments  in 
his  son's  name,  and  these,  though  limited  in  char 
acter,  by  a  lucky  stroke  had  doubled  again  and 
again,  till  he  was  wont  to  say  proudly  that  his  son 
was  the  only  capitalist  he  knew  who  had  an  abso 
lutely  safe  investment  paying  twenty  per  cent.  He 
had  a  sort  of  respect  for  the  boy,  as  representing 
much  money  and  many  inchoate  values.  His  in 
fancy  must  be  carefully  tended,  his  education  lib 
eral  and  sedulously  supervised,  and  when  he  should 
go  into  the  world,  representing  his  father's  name  and 
fortune,  he  should  be  worthy  of  both.  Turn  him 
over  to  Paula,  in  his  tender  callowness,  to  be 
dragged  about  from  post  to  pillar  for  her  behoof 
— he  would  not  endure  the  idea. 

As  the  cool  air  chilled  his  temper  and  the  swift 
walk  and  change  of  scene  gave  the  current  of  his 
thoughts  a  new  trend  he  began  to  be  more  tolerant 
of  her  attitude  in  the  matter.  The  truth  was,  he 
said  to  himself,  they  each  loved  the  child  too  dearly, 
were  too  solicitous  for  his  well  being,  to  be  willing 
to  be  separated  from  him,  and,  but  for  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  this  lawsuit,  he  would  never  have 
proposed  it.  It  was,  however,  necessary,  absolutely 
necessary,  and  he  would  take  measures  to  induce 
Paula  to  depart  on  this  delightful  journey  without 
making  public  her  disinclination.  He  had  taken 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        319 

her,  perhaps,  too  abruptly  by  surprise.  She  was 
overcome  with  frenzy  to  discover  that  the  child  was 
actually  gone ! — he  should  overlook  her  hasty  words 
— though  to  his  temperament  this  was  impossible, 
and  he  knew  it;  they  were  burned  indelibly  into  his 
consciousness.  Never  before,  in  all  his  pompous, 
prosperous  life  had  he  been  so  addressed.  But  he 
would  make  an  effort — one  more  effort  to  persuade 
her;  with  a  resolute  fling  he  turned  to  retrace  his 
way,  coming  into  the  broad  and  splendid  avenue  on 
which  his  palatial  home  fronted,  he  walked  up  the 
street  as  she  was  walking  down  the  opposite  side. 

He  let  himself  in  with  his  latch-key,  closing  the 
door  softly  behind  him.  The  great  hall  and  the 
lighted  rooms  with  their  rich  furnishings,  glimpsed 
through  the  open  doors,  looked  strangely  desolate. 
For  one  moment  silence — absolute,  intense.  Then 
a  grotesque,  unbecoming  intrusion  on  the  ornate 
elegance — a  burst  of  distant,  uncultured  laughter 
from  below  stairs,  and  a  clatter  of  dishes.  Floyd- 
Rosney  was  something  of  an  epicure,  and  it  was  a 
good  dinner  that  went  down  untouched.  The  mas 
ter  of  the  house  frowned  heavily.  He  lifted  his 
head,  minded  to  ring  a  bell  and  administer  reproof. 
Then  he  reflected  that  it  well  accorded  with  his  in 
terests  that  he  should  be  supposed  to  be  out  of  the 
house  while  the  interview  with  his  wife  was  in 
progress.  She  had  a  way  of  late  of  raising  her 
voice  in  a  keen  protest  that  advertised  domestic  dis 
cordances  to  all  within  earshot.  "Let  the  servants 
carouse  and  gorge  their  dinner;  I'll  settle  them 
afterward !"  he  said  to  himself  grimly,  as  he  noise 
lessly  ascended  the  stairs. 

Once  more  silence — he  could  not  hear  even  his 


520       THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHUHST 

own  footfall.  He  had  a  vague  sense  of  solitude,  of 
uninhabited  purlieus.  With  a  sudden  rush  of  haste 
he  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  nursery,  flaring  with 
lights,  but  vacant,  and  strode  through  to  his  wife's 
room,  to  find  it  vacant,  too.  He  stood  for  a  mo 
ment,  mystified,  anger  in  his  eyes,  but  dismay,  fear, 
doubt  clutching  at  his  heart.  What  did  this  mean? 
He  went  hastily  from  one  to  another  of  the  suite  of 
luxurious  rooms  devoted  to  her  especial  use,  but  in 
none  save  one  was  any  token  of  her  recent  presence. 
He  stood  staring  at  the  disarray.  There  was  the 
gown  of  lavender  gauze  that  she  had  donned  for 
the  opera,  lying  on  a  chair,  while  the  silk  slip  that 
it  had  covered  lay  huddled  on  the  floor.  The  slip 
pers,  hastily  thrust  off,  tripped  his  unwary  step  as 
he  advanced  into  the  room.  On  the  dressing  table, 
glittering  with  a  hundred  articles  of  toilet  luxury,  lay 
the  two  strings  of  costly  pearls  uwhere  anyone 
might  have  stolen  them" ;  he  mechanically  reproved 
her  lack  of  precaution.  He  strove  to  reassure  him 
self,  to  contend  against  a  surging  sense  of  calamity. 
What  did  this  signify?  Only  that  the  festivity  of  the 
evening  relinquished  she  had  laid  aside  her  gala  at 
tire.  Her  absence — it  was  early — she  might  have 
gone  out  with  some  visitor;  she  might  have  cared 
to  make  some  special  call,  so  seldom  did  they  have 
an  evening  unoccupied.  Despite  the  incongruity  of 
the  idea  with  the  recollection  of  her  pale,  drawn, 
agonized  face,  the  frenzy  of  her  grief  and  rage,  he 
took  down  the  receiver  of  the  telephone  and  called 
up  Hildegarde  Dean.  The  moment  the  connection 
was  completed  he  regretted  his  folly.  Over  the 
wire  came  the  vibrations  of  a  string-orchestra,  and 
he  recalled  having  noticed  in  the  society  columns 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

of  the  papers  that  Miss  Dean  was  entertaining 
with  a  dinner  dance  to  compliment  a  former  school 
mate.  He  had  lost  his  poise  sufficiently,  never 
theless,  to  make  the  query,  "Is  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney 
there?"  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  be  answered  by 
the  butler,  in  the  pomp  and  pride  of  the  occasion: 
"No,  sah.  Dis  entertainment  is  exclusively  for  un 
married  people." 

"The  devil  it  is  1"  Floyd-Rosney  exclaimed,  after, 
however,  cautiously  releasing  the  receiver. 

His  fuming  humor  was  heightened  by  this  con 
tretemps,  although  a  great  and  growing  dismay  was 
vaguely  shadowed  in  his  eyes,  like  a  thought  in  the 
back  of  the  mind,  so  to  speak,  too  unaccustomed,  too 
preposterous,  to  find  ready  expression.  He  en 
deavored  to  calm  himself,  although  he  lost  no  time 
in  prosecuting  his  investigations.  With  a  hasty 
hand  he  touched  the  electric  bell  for  his  wife's  maid 
and  impatiently  awaited  the  response.  To  his  sur 
prise  it  was  not  prompt.  He  stood  amidst  his  in 
congruous  surroundings  of  gowns,  and  jewels,  and 
slippers,  and  laces,  and  revolving  panels  of  mirrors, 
frowning  heavily.  How  did  it  chance  that  her  ser 
vice  should  be  so  dilatory?  He  placed  his  fore 
finger  on  the  button  and  held  it  there,  and  the 
jangling  was  still  resounding  below  stairs  when  the 
door  slowly  opened  and  the  maid,  with  an  air  of 
affronted  inquiry,  presented  herself.  Her  face 
changed  abruptly  as  she  perceived  the  master  of 
the  house,  albeit  it  was  like  pulling  a  cloak  of  bland 
superserviceableness  over  her  lineaments  of  impu 
dent  protest. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  being  so  slow  to  answer 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

this  bell?"  he  thundered,  his  angry  eyes  contempt 
uously  regarding  her. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  heard  it,  sir.  I  think  there 
must  be  something  wrong  with  the  annunciator." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  leaving  your  mistress's 
gowns  lying  around,  and  her  room  in  this  disorder?" 

The  girl's  beady  eyes  traveled  in  bewilderment 
from  one  article  to  another  of  the  turmoil  of  toilet 
accessories  scattered  about  the  apartment.  She  had 
looked  for  a  moment  as  if  she  would  fire  up  at  the 
phrase  "your  mistress,"  and  she  said  with  a  slight 
emphasis  on  the  title: 

"I  didn't  know  that  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  had 
changed." 

"Where  has  she  gone?" 

Once  more  a  dull  and  genuine  bewilderment  on 
the  maid's  face. 

"I  am  sure,  sir,  I  don't  know — she  didn't  ring 
for  me." 

"I  reckon  you  didn't  answer  the  bell,"  Floyd- 
Rosney  sneered.  "She  couldn't  wait  forever.  She 
hasn't  my  patience." 

The  girl  glowered  at  his  back,  but,  mindful  of 
the  mirrors,  forbore  the  grimace  so  grateful  in  mo 
ments  of  disaffection  to  her  type. 

Floyd-Rosney  was  speaking  through  the  house 
telephone. 

"Have  the  limousine  at  the  door — yes — immedi 
ately." 

The  ready  response  of  the  chauffeur  came  over 
the  wire. 

"Now  see  what  gown  she  wore,  so  that  I  can 
guess  where  to  send  for  her.  A  nice  business  this 
is — that  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  can't  get  hold  of  her 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        323 

maid  to  change  her  dress  and  leave  a  message.  I 
don't  doubt  there  is  a  note  somewhere,  if  I  could 
find  it." 

He  affected  to  toss  over  the  melange  on  the  dress 
ing-table.  He  even  looked  at  the  evening  paper 
lying  on  the  foot-rest,  which  she  had  read  while  her 
hair  was  being  dressed  for  the  opera. 

As  he  did  so  an  item  of  personal  mention  caught 
his  attention.  Mr.  Randal  Ducie  was  in  the  city, 
doubtless  in  connection  with  the  gathering  of  plant 
ers  to  consult  with  the  Levee  Commission  in  regard 
to  river  protection.  A  meeting  would  be  held  this 
evening  at  the  Adelantado  Hotel. 

This  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 
Half  the  planters  in  the  river  bottom  were  in  active 
cooperation  seeking  to  influence  the  Levee  Commis 
sion,  or  the  State  Legislature,  or  the  Federal  Gov 
ernment  to  take  some  adequate  measures  to  prevent 
the  inundation  of  their  cotton  lands  by  a  general 
overflow  of  the  great  Mississippi  River,  according  to 
the  several  prepossessions  relative  to  the  proper 
plans,  and  means,  and  agency  to  that  end. 

But  as  he  read  the  haphazard  words  of  the  para 
graph  the  blood  flared  fiercely  in  Floyd-Rosney's 
face;  a  fire  glowed  in  his  eyes,  hot  and  furious;  his 
hand  was  trembling;  his  breath  came  quick.  And 
he  was  well  nigh  helpless  even  to  conjecture  if  his 
wife's  absence  had  aught  of  connection  with  this  ill- 
starred  appearance  of  the  lover  of  her  girlhood. 
He — Edward  Floyd-Rosney,  baffled,  hoodwinked, 
set  at  naught!  Could  this  thing  be! 

For  one  moment,  for  one  brief  moment,  he  up 
braided  himself.  But  for  his  tyranny  in  sending 
pff  the  child  without  her  consent,  without  even  con- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

suiting  her,  but  for  his  determination  that,  willing 
or  no,  she  should  expatriate  herself  for  a  year,  and, 
with  neither  husband  nor  child,  tour  a  foreign  coun 
try  in  company  of  his  selection  they  might  already  be 
seated  in  their  box  at  the  opera,  rapt  by  the  con 
cord  of  sweet  sounds  in  the  midst  of  the  most  ele 
gant  and  refined  presentment  of  their  world,  at 
peace  with  each  other  and  in  no  danger  of  damaging 
and  humiliating  revelations  of  domestic  discord. 

He  heard  the  puffing  of  the  limousine  at  the  curb 
below  the  windows,  and  he  turned  to  the  maid. 

"I  can  find  no  scrape  of  a  pen — no  note  here. 
Do  you  know  what  gown  she  wore?" 

The  girl  had  made  a  terrifying  discovery.  As 
she  fingered  the  skirts  hanging  in  the  wardrobe,  for 
she  had  thought  first  of  the  demi-toilette  of  usual 
evening  wear,  she  was  reflecting  on  the  gossip  be 
low  stairs,  where  it  was  believed  that  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney  had  not  known  of  the  departure  of  her  little 
son  till  he  was  out  of  the  house,  and  where  it  was 
surmised  she  would  be  all  utore  up"  when  she  should 
discover  his  absence — so  much  she  made  of  the  boy. 
Aunt  Dorothy  had  been  given  permission  to  spend 
the  night  with  her  granddaughter  who  lived  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  river,  a  favorite  excursion  with 
the  ancient  colored  retainer.  She  was  not  popular 
with  the  coterie  below  stairs,  and,  being  prone  to 
report  what  went  amiss,  would  certainly  have  noti 
fied  her  young  mistress  if  any  attempt  had  been 
made  to  spirit  away  the  child  while  in  her  charge. 
The  maid  had  found  naught  missing  from  among 
the  dresses  most  likely  to  be  worn  on  any  ordi 
nary  occasion  in  the  evening,  and  she  was  turning 
away  reluctantly  to  examine  the  boxes  in  the  closet 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        825 

where  were  stored  those  gowns  of  grander  pre 
tension,  designed  for  functions  of  special  note.  She 
had  a  discontented  frown  on  her  face,  for  they  were 
enveloped,  piece  by  piece,  in  many  layers  of  tissue 
paper;  she  could  not  ascertain  what  was  there  and 
what  was  gone,  from  the  wrappers,  save  by  actual 
investigation;  among  them  were  sachets  of  delicate 
perfumes  that  must  not  be  mixed;  they  had  trains 
and  draperies  difficult  to  fold,  and  berthas  and 
sashes  that  must  be  laid  in  the  same  creases  as  be 
fore — a  job  requiring  hours  of  work,  and  useless, 
for  no  gown  of  this  sort  could  have  been  worn  with 
out  assistance  in  dressing,  and  for  an  occasion  long 
heralded.  As  she  closed  the  wardrobe  with  a  pet 
tish  jerk  it  started  open  the  other  door,  and  she 
paused  with  an  aghast  look  on  her  face.  She  was 
afraid  of  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  when  he  was  angry. 

"She  has  worn  her  coat-suit  of  taupe  broadcloth," 
she  said  in  a  bated  voice,  and  with  a  wincing, 
deprecatory  glance  at  him,  uand  the  hat  to  match." 

Floyd-Rosney  received  this  information  in  silence. 
Then — "Why  do  you  look  like  that,  you  fool?"  he 
thundered. 

1  'C — c — cause,"  stuttered  the  girl,  "she  has  taken 
her  suit-case — it  was  always  kept  on  the  shelf  here, 
packed  with  fresh  lingerie,  so  she  might  be  ready 
for  them  quick  little  auto  trips  you  like  to  go  on 
so  often,  and  her  walking  boots  is  gone" — hold 
ing  up  a  pair  of  boot-trees, — "and,"  opening  a  glove 
box,  "the  suede  taupe  gloves  is  gone."  Her  cour 
age  asserted  itself;  her  temper  flared  up.  "And  it 
seems  to  me,  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney,  that  if  there's  any 
fool  here,  'taint  me!" 

"You    will    be    paid    your    wages    to-morrow," 


326        THE    STORY    OP   DUCIEHURST 

foamed  Floyd-Rosney,  dashing  from  the  room. 
"Clear  out  of  the  house. " 

"Just  as  well,"  the  girl  said  to  the  gaping  ser 
vants  downstairs,  who  remonstrated  with  her  for 
her  sharp  tongue,  reproaching  her  with  throwing 
away  a  good  place,  liberal  wages  and  liberal  fare. 
"Just  as  well.  If  there's  to  be  no  lady  there's  no 
use  for  a  lady's  maid." 

"To  the  Union  Station,"  Floyd-Rosney  hissed 
forth  as  he  flung  himself  into  the  limousine.  In 
the  transit  thither  he  took  counsel  within  himself. 
Where  could  Paula  be  going? — Only  on  some  fan 
tastic  quest  for  her  child.  He  ran  over,  in  his  mind, 
any  hint  that  he  might  have  let  drop  as  to  the  lo 
cality  where  he  had  bestowed  him,  and  she,  putting 
two  and  two  together,  had  fancied  she  had  discov 
ered  the  place.  If,  by  any  coincidence,  she  had  hit 
upon  the  boy's  domicile,  he  told  himself,  he  would 
make  no  protest;  he  would  let  her  have  her  way; 
he  would  give  the  world  for  all  to  be  between  them 
as  it  was  this  afternoon.  As  to  the  lawsuit — let 
come  what  might!  If  only  he  could  intercept  her 
in  this  mad  enterprise;  if  he  could  reach  her  before 
she  took  the  train !  He  called  through  the  speaking 
tube  to  the  chauffeur  to  go  faster. 

"Never  mind  the  speed  limit — do  all  you  know 
how!" 

Presently  the  great  vehicle  slowed  up,  panting  and 
sizzling  as  if  winded  in  the  race.  He  sprang  out 
before  it  had  ceased  to  move  and  rushed  up  the 
stairs,  patrolling  the  various  apartments,  the  ladies' 
waiting  room,  the  refreshment  room — he  remem 
bered  that  she  could  have  had  no  dinner — the  gen 
eral  ante-room,  with  its  crowd  of  the  traveling  pub- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        327 

lie.  He  was  a  notable  figure,  with  his  splendid  ap 
pearance,  his  fur-lined  overcoat,  his  frowning,  intent 
brow,  his  long,  swift  stride. 

All  in  vain — she  was  not  there.  The  clamor  of 
the  train  that  was  making  ready  for  departure  struck 
his  absorbed  attention.  The  place  was  full  of  the 
odor  of  the  bituminous  smoke  from  the  locomotive; 
he  heard  the  panting  of  the  steam  exhaust. 

Floyd-Rosney  rushed  down  the  stairs  and  into 
the  great  shed  which  seemed,  with  its  high  vaulted 
roof,  clouded  with  smoke  dull  and  dim,  despite  the 
glare  here  and  there  of  electric  lights.  He  was 
stopped  in  the  crowd  at  the  gate.  He  had  no  ticket 
— money  could  not  buy  it  here.  He  explained  has 
tily  that  he  wished  to  see  a  friend  off.  The  regula 
tions  were  stringent,  the  functionary  obdurate;  the 
crowd  streaming  through  the  gate  disposed  to  stare, 
and  a  burly  policeman,  lounging  about,  regarded  the 
insistent  swell  with  an  inimical  glare.  For  there 
are  those  dressed  like  swells  that  are  far  from  that 
puffed-up  estate. 

The  suggestion  calmed  Floyd-Rosney  for  the 
nonce.  It  needed  but  this,  he  felt,  to  complete  his 
folly — to  involve  himself  in  a  futile  fracas  with  a 
gateman  and  a  cop.  Moreover,  he  had  no  justifi 
cation  in  fancying  that  Paula  was  likely  to  take  a 
train — in  fact,  and  he  smiled  grimly,  she  would  not 
have  the  cash  to  buy  a  ticket.  The  whole  theory 
that  she  might  quit  the  city  was  a  baseless  fabrica 
tion  of  his  fears,  of  the  disorder  of  his  ideas  in 
duced  by  the  vexatious  and  unexpected  contretemps. 
Doubtless,  by  this  time  she  had  returned  from  the 
stroll  or  the  call,  or  whatever  device  she  had  adopted 
to  quiet  her  spirit  and  divert  her  mind,  he  argued — 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

he  himself  had  found  refreshment  in  a  brisk  walk 
in  the  night  air — and  was  now  sitting  before  the 
fire  at  home,  awaiting  his  coming,  possibly  willing 
to  discuss  the  matter  in  a  more  amicable  frame  of 
mind. 

He  was  about  to  turn  aside  when  suddenly  down 
the  line  of  rails  within  the  shed  and  between  the 
train  standing  still  and  the  one  beginning  to  move, 
the  metallic  clangor  of  its  bell  insistently  jarring  the 
air,  he  saw  the  figure  of  Paula,  visible  in  the  glare 
of  the  headlight  of  the  locomotive  beside  her.  Every 
detail  was  as  distinct,  as  illuminated  as  in  the  por 
trayal  of  a  magic  lantern — her  taupe  gown,  her  hat 
with  a  plume  of  the  same  shade,  her  face  flushed, 
laughing  and  eager.  A  man  was  assisting  her  to 
mount  the  platform  of  the  coach  and  in  him  Floyd- 
Rosney  was  sure  he  recognized  Randal  Ducie,  whose 
arrival  in  the  city  he  had  noted  in  the  evening  pa 
per.  The  whole  maneuver  of  boarding  the  train, — 
the  placing  of  the  stool  by  the  porter,  Paula's  failure 
to  reach  from  it  to  the  step  of  the  car,  the  swift 
muscular  effort  by  which  Ducie  seized  her,  swung 
her  to  the  platform,  and  then  sprang  upon  it  him 
self, — was  all  as  plain  to  the  frenzied  man  watching 
the  vanishing  train  from  between  the  palings  of  the 
gate  as  if  the  scene  had  been  enacted  within  ten 
feet  of  him. 


CHAPTER   XX 

PAULA  reached  her  destination  early  the  next 
morning.  She  had  not  slept  during  the  night  and 
as  soon  as  the  light  began  to  dawn  she  raised  the 
blind  at  her  window  and  lay  in  her  berth  looking  out 
drearily  at  the  face  of  the  country,  growing  con 
stantly  more  familiar,  but  yet  dimly  descried  and 
colorless  as  a  scene  in  sepia,  with  the  lagging  night 
still  clinging  to  the  earth.  Belts  of  white  vapor 
lay  in  every  depression;  the  forests  along  the  hori 
zon  made  a  dark  circumference  for  the  whole;  the 
stars  were  wan  and  sad  of  aspect  and  faded  from 
the  sky,  one  by  one,  as  the  eye  dwelt  upon  them. 
The  characteristic  features  of  the  swamp  region  had 
vanished.  In  many  places  the  land  was  deeply  gul 
lied,  showing  as  the  day  waxed  a  richly  tinted  red 
clay  that  made  the  somber  landscape  glow.  Every 
where  were  the  hedges  of  the  evergreen  Cherokee 
rose,  defining  the  borders  of  fields,  often  untrimmed 
and  encroaching  in  a  great  green  billow  on  spaces 
unmeet  for  a  mere  boundary  mark.  The  trees  were 
huge;  gigantic  oaks  and  the  spreading  black-gum; 
and  she  was  ready,  her  hat  on,  her  wrap  and  furs 
adjusted,  looking  out  eagerly  at  these  dense  bosky 
growths  when  the  red  wintry  sun  began  to  cast 
long  shafts  of  quiet  dull  sheen  adown  their  aisles, 
showing  the  white  rime  on  the  rough  bark  of  the 

329 


330        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

boughs,  or  among  the  russet  leaves,  still  persistently 
clinging.  More  than  once  the  conductor  came  in 
to  consult  her  as  to  the  precise  point  of  stoppage, 
and,  when  a  long  warning  whistle  set  the  echoes  astir 
in  the  quiet  matutinal  atmosphere  and  the  train  be 
gan  to  slow  down,  she  was  alertly  on  her  feet. 

"You  are  sure  of  the  place,  ma'am?"  said  the 
conductor,  helping  her  descend  the  step;  he  was  new 
to  the  road,  and  there  seemed  to  him  nothing  here 
but  woods. 

She  reassured  him  as  she  lightly  ran  down  the 
steep  incline,  and  then  she  stood  for  a  moment,  me 
chanically  watching  the  train,  epitome  of  the  world, 
sweeping  away  and  leaving  her  here,  the  dense  forest 
before  her,  the  smoke  flaunting  backward,  the  sun 
emblazoning  its  convolutions,  the  wondering  faces 
of  the  passengers  at  the  windows. 

She  remembered  the  time  when  this  wonder  would 
have  nettled  her.  She  had  wanted  a  station  plat 
form  built  here,  but  her  uncle  had  utilitarian  the 
ories,  and,  somehow,  "never  got  round  to  it,"  as  he 
was  wont  to  phrase  it.  So  seldom,  indeed,  they 
boarded  the  train,  so  seldom  it  brought  a  visitor, 
that  it  seemed  to  him  the  least  and  last  needed  ap 
purtenance  of  the  plantation.  She  wondered  if  the 
stoppage  had  been  not  noted  at  the  house.  The 
woods  were  silent,  as  with  mystery,  as  she  took  her 
way  through  "the  grove."  The  frost  lay  white  on 
the  grass,  and  there  was  even  a  glint  of  ice  in  the 
water  lurking  in  the  ruts  of  a  wagon  wheel  in  the 
road.  She  walked  on  these  frozen  edges  after  a 
fashion  learned  long  ago  to  keep  her  feet  dainty 
when  not  so  expensively  shod  as  now.  Suddenly 
she  heard  the  deep  baying  of  a  hound. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        331 

"Oh,  old  Hero!"  she  exclaimed  pettishly.  "He 
will  tell  them  all  I  have  come!" 

For  she  had  wished  to  slip  in  unobserved.  The 
humiliation  of  her  return  in  this  wise  seemed  less 
when  the  kindly  old  roof  should  be  above  her  head. 
But  the  dog  met  her,  fierce  and  furious,  at  the  fence 
of  the  door  yard — how  she  had  hated  that  fence; 
she  had  wanted  the  grove  and  yard  thrown  together 
like  some  fine  park.  As  the  old  retainer  recognized 
her  the  complication  of  his  barks  which  he  could 
not  forego,  in  view  of  her  capacity  as  stranger,  with 
his  wheezes  and  whines  of  ecstasy,  as  greeting  to 
an  old  friend,  while  he  leaped  and  gamboled  about 
her,  brought  her  uncle  and  aunt,  every  chick  and 
child,  the  servants  from  the  outhouses,  and  all  the 
dogs  on  the  place  to  make  cheerful  acclaim  of  wel 
come. 

So  long  had  it  been  since  she  had  heard  this 
hearty,  genuine  note  of  disinterested  affection  that 
it  came  like  balm  to  her  lacerated  heart,  and  sud 
denly  there  seemed  no  more  need  for  pride,  for 
dissimulation,  for  self-restraint.  She  broke  down 
and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  the  group  lachry 
mose  in  sympathy  and  wiping  their  eyes. 

She  had  planned  throughout  the  night  how  best 
and  when  to  tell  her  story,  but  it  was  disclosed  with 
out  preface  or  method,  before  she  had  been  in  the 
house  ten  minutes,  her  aunt  cautiously  closing  the 
door  of  the  sitting-room  the  instant  Mr.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney's  name  was  mentioned  and  her  uncle  looking 
very  grave. 

"You  were  quite  right  in  coming  at  once  to  us, 
my  dear,"  he  said  kindly.  "Be  sure  you  shall  not 
be  shipped  out  of  the  country." 


332        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

He  was  a  tall,  heavy  man,  somewhat  spare  and 
angular,  and  his  large  well-formed  features  ex 
pressed  both  shrewdness  and  kindness.  He  had 
abundant  grizzled  hair  and  his  keen  gray  eyes  were 
deeply  set  under  thick  dark  eyebrows.  He  was  a 
fair-minded  man  one  could  see  at  a  glance,  a  thor 
oughly  reliable  man  in  every  relation  of  life,  a  gentle 
man  of  the  old  school. 

"Some  arrangement  will  surely  be  made  about 
the  baby;  I  shall  love  to  see  the  little  fellow  again. 
Set  your  heart  at  rest.  I  will  communicate  at  once 
with  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney,  as  your  nearest  relative, 
standing  in  loco  parentis." 

"And  give  me  some  breakfast,"  said  Paula,  laps 
ing  into  the  old  childish  whine  of  a  spoiled  house 
hold  pet.  "I  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since  yester 
day  at  lunch." 

The  husband  and  wife  exchanged  a  glance  over 
her  head. 

"And  before  I  forget  it "  she  raised  herself 

to  an  upright  position  and  took  from  her  bag  the 
twenty  dollar  bill.  "Please  write  and  return  this  to 
old  Colonel  Kenwynton.  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
sign  my  name  to  such  a  letter.  He  would  lend  it  to 
me — though  I  didn't  need  it  after  he  and  Adrian 
Ducie — Randal  Ducie's  brother — had  lent  me  the 
money  to  buy  my  ticket." 

Mrs.  Majoribanks  was  a  stern-faced  woman  with 
rigid  ideas  of  the  acceptable  in  conduct.  Her  dark 
hair,  definitely  streaked  with  gray,  banded  smoothly 
along  her  high  forehead,  her  serious,  compelling, 
gray  eyes,  the  extreme  neatness  and  accuracy  of 
adjustment  of  her  dress,  her  precise  method  of 
enunciation,  intimated  an  uncompromising  person- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

ality,  possessing  high  ideals  religiously  followed, — 
somewhat  narrow  of  view,  perhaps,  and  severe  of 
judgment,  but  unfalteringly,  immovably  upright. 

"But,  Paula,  why  didn't  you  buy  your  own  ticket 
with  your  own  money?  To  allow  another  to  buy  it 
was  inappropriate." 

"I  had  no  money,"  Paula  explained  humbly.  "Mr. 
Floyd-Rosney  lets  me  buy  anything  I  want  on  ac 
count,  but  he  never  gives  me  any  money  to  spend  as 
I  like."  Once  more  the  husband  and  wife  looked 
significantly  at  each  other.  All  that  they  possessed 
was  his,  but  the  privileges  of  ownership  were  ex 
ercised  in  common,  the  expenditures  a  matter  of 
mutual  confidence  and  agreement,  and  it  may  be 
doubted  if  he  ever  took  a  step  in  business  affairs 
without  consultation  with  her. 

The  spare,  sober  decorum  of  the  aspect  of  the 
house  appealed  to  Paula  in  her  present  state  of 
mind,  her  taste  for  magnificence  glutted,  and  she 
remembered,  with  a  sort  of  wonder,  her  intolerance 
of  the  stiff  old  furniture  of  the  sitting-room  covered 
with  hair-cloth;  the  crimson  brocade,  well  frayed, 
of  the  parlor  glimpsed  through  the  open  door,  with 
the  old-fashioned  lambrequins  at  the  windows  and 
carefully  mended  lace  curtains,  and  the  family  por 
traits  in  oil  on  the  walls;  the  linoleum  on  the  floor 
of  the  hall  that  had  been  there  seeming  indestructi 
ble  since  she  could  remember;  the  barometer  hang 
ing  over  the  long  sofa;  the  grandfather's  clock  in 
the  corner,  still  allotting  the  hours,  however  lives 
might  wax  or  wane ;  the  dining-room,  with  the  burly 
sideboard  and  the  peacock  fly-brush,  and  the  white- 
jacketed  waiter,  and  the  brisk  little  darkey  that  ran 
in  and  out  with  the  relays  of  hot  buttered  waffles. 


334        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

It  all  seemed  so  sane,  so  simple,  so  safe.  Here  and 
there,  conspicuously  placed,  were  gifts  which  she 
and  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  had  made,  ostentatiously 
handsome.  She  thought  them  curiously  out  of  ac 
cord  with  the  tone  of  the  place,  and,  oddly  enough, 
she  felt  ashamed  of  them. 

She  asked  herself  how  and  why  had  such  an  ob 
session  as  had  possessed  her  ever  come  to  her — the 
hankering  for  the  empty  life  of  show,  and  fashion, 
and  wealth.  Had  she  not  had  every  reasonable  wish 
gratified,  enjoyed  every  advantage  of  a  solid  and 
careful  education,  had  every  social  opportunity  in 
a  circle,  limited,  certainly,  but  characterized  by  re 
finement,  and  dignity,  and  seemliness,  that  was  the 
gentility  of  long  traditions  of  gentlefolks — not 
pretty  manners,  picked  up  the  day  before  yester 
day.  She  had  come  back  to  it  now — her  wings 
clipped,  her  feathers  drooping. 

She  could  not  enter  into  the  old  home  life  as  of 
yore — it  seemed  strangely  alien,  though  so  familiar. 
She  would  look  vaguely  at  her  young  cousins,  each 
altered  and  much  more  mature  in  the  five  years 
that  had  passed  since  she  was  an  inmate  of  the  house 
hold — well  grown,  handsome,  intelligent  boys  they 
were,  instead  of  the  romping  children  she  had  left. 
They  spent  the  mornings  with  a  tutor  who  came 
from  the  neighboring  town  to  read  with  them,  and 
the  eldest  was  much  given  to  argument  with  his 
father,  insisting  vivaciously  on  his  theories  of  gov 
ernment,  of  religion,  of  politics,  of  the  proper 
method  of  construing  certain  Latin  verses;  the  two 
younger  were  absorbed  in  their  dogs,  their  rabbits, 
their  games — the  multitudinous  little  interests  of 
people  of  their  age,  so  momentous  to  them.  Al- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

ways  their  world  was  home — she  wondered  what 
the  real  world  would  seem  to  them  when  they  should 
emerge  into  it,  what  the  theories  of  government, 
the  phrasing  of  Latin  verses,  the  home  absorptions 
would  prove  as  preparation  for  life  as  she  knew  it. 
Certainly  they  did  not  formulate  it.  She  said  to 
herself  that  a  more  secluded  existence  could  hardly 
be  matched  outside  a  monastery.  She  did  not  be 
lieve  any  of  the  three  had  ever  seen  a  game  of 
football  or  baseball;  the  life  of  cities,  of  travel,  of 
association  with  their  fellows  was  as  a  sealed  book 
to  them.  In  their  minds  Ingleside  was  a  realm; 
their  father  was  their  comrade;  their  mother  was 
the  court  of  last  resort. 

But  Paula's  absorbed  thoughts  refused  all  but 
the  slightest  speculation  upon  the  subject  of  their 
future  and  she  could  urge  herself  to  only  the  shadow 
of  interest  in  her  aunt's  pursuits  and  absorptions. 
Even  the  room  of  her  girlhood — she  could  not  enter 
there,  she  could  not  sleep  there,  for  dreams — dreams 
— dreams!  They  might  have  there  faculties  of 
visualization  or  unseen  they  could  stab  her  unaware. 
Never  again  should  her  spirit  encounter  these  im 
material  essences.  She  asked  her  aunt  to  give  her 
her  grandmother's  room.  It  was  small  comfort  in 
laying  her  head  on  that  pillow  which  had  never 
known  a  selfish  thought,  an  unsanctified  desire,  to 
feel  the  difference,  the  distance.  But  here  all  good 
influences  abode,  and  she  was  consoled  in  a  sort 
for  the  unappreciated  affliction  of  that  saintly  death, 
to  whisper  into  the  downy  depth — "I  have  come 
back — scourged — scourged !" 

How  she  remembered  that  that  good  grand 
mother  had  so  grievously  deprecated  the  course 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

toward  Randal  Dude;  that  she  had  declared  the 
greatest  of  all  disasters  is  a  marriage  without  love, 
and  that  a  promise  is  a  promise;  many  times  she 
shook  her  head,  and  shed  some  shy,  shy  tears  over 
Randal's  dismissal,  though  Paula  wrote  the  letter  in 
a  frenzy  of  careless  energy,  without  erasing  a  word 
or  troubling  to  take  a  copy. 

She  would  note  with  a  sort  of  apologetic  affection 
the  details  of  this  familiar  room  that  she  had  early 
learned  to  stigmatize  as  old-fashioned,  and  in  her 
schoolgirl  phrase  "tacky" — the  chintz  curtains  with 
their  big  flowers;  the  hair-cloth  covered  rocking 
chairs;  the  four-poster  mahogany  bedstead  with  its 
heavily  corniced  tester,  the  red  cloth  goffered  to 
the  center  to  focus  in  a  big  gilt  star;  the  mahogany 
bureau,  so  tall  that  the  mirror  made  good  head 
way  to  the  ceiling;  the  floriated  Brussels  carpet  so 
antique  of  pattern  that  she  used  to  say  she  believed 
it  was  manufactured  before  the  flood  and  so  staunch 
of  web  that  it  was  destined  to  last  till  doomsday; 
the  little  work-table,  with  its  drawers  still  filled 
with  spools,  and  buttons,  and  reels  of  embroidery 
silk,  and  balls  of  wool  for  knitting  and  crochet — 
doubtless  some  piece  of  her  grandmother's  beautiful 
handiwork  still  lay  where  her  busy  fingers  had  placed 
it,  with  the  needle  yet  in  the  stitch. 

The  rose  curtained  window  gave  on  no  smiling 
scene — it  was  one  of  the  few  outlooks  from  the 
house  that  was  not  of  bosky  presentment.  But  the 
grove  had  ceased  ere  these  precincts  were  reached 
and  the  view  was  of  a  dull  bit  of  pasture  and  be 
yond  a  dreary  stretch  of  cornfields,  in  which  the 
stalks  still  stood,  stripped  of  the  ears,  pallid  with 
frost  and  writhen  into  fantastic  postures  by  wind 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        337 

and  weather.  It  was  but  a  dreary  landscape,  trem 
bling  under  slanting  lines  of  rain,  and  later  of  sleet, 
for  the  halcyon  weather  had  vanished  at  last,  and 
winter  had  come  in  earnest.  A  mist  hung  much  of 
the  time  between  the  earth  and  a  leaden  sky,  and 
the  woods  that  lay  along  the  low  horizon  were  barely 
glimpsed  as  a  dull,  indistinct  smudge. 

Nothing,  she  said  to  herself,  could  ever  rehabili 
tate  the  universe  for  her.  This  crisis  was  so  com 
prehensive,  so  significant.  She  clenched  her  hands 
when  she  reviewed  the  past  few  years  with  a  nervous 
fury  so  intense  that  the  nails  marked  the  palms. 
Her  memories  and  her  self-reproach  seared  her  con 
sciousness  like  hot  iron.  Whelmed  in  the  luxury  of 
wealth,  proud  of  her  preeminence  of  station,  shar 
ing  as  far  as  might  be  her  husband's  domineering 
assumptions  toward  others,  cravenly  submitting  when 
his  humor  required  her,  too,  to  crook  the  knee,  she 
had  subverted  her  every  opinion,  her  inmost  con 
victions,  to  theories  of  life  she  would  once  have 
despised,  to  estimate  as  of  paramount  value  the 
things  she  had  been  taught  to  hold  as  dross.  She 
had  cast  aside  all  her  standards  of  intrinsic  worth. 
Sometimes  she  would  spring  from  sleep  and  walk 
the  floor,  the  red  glow  of  the  embers  on  the  wall, 
the  shadows  glooming  about  her,  the  events  of  those 
tumultuous  years,  in  the  fierce  white  light  of  actual 
ity  rather  than  the  glimpses  of  memories,  deploying 
before  her.  Resist  his  influence ?  She  had  flat 
tered,  she  had  surrounded  him  with  an  atmosphere 
of  adulation.  She  had  loved  so  much  his  posses 
sions  and  her  realized  ambitions  that  she  had  im 
bibed  the  theory  that  she  had  loved  him.  True,  she 
had  admired  him — his  impressive  presence,  his  dom- 


338        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

ineering  habit  of  mind,  his  expensive  culture,  his 
discrimination  in  matters  of  art  and  music,  the  cring 
ing  attitude  toward  him  of  his  employees,  his  hum 
ble  friends,  and  now  and  then  a  man  on  his  own 
plane,  unable  to  sustain  his  individuality  before  that 
coercive  influence.  Bring  tribute — bring  tribute  I  In 
every  relation  of  life  that  fiat  went  forth.  And 
she  had  permitted  herself  to  believe  that  her  craven 
acquiescence  in  this  demand  was — love !  And,  doubt 
less,  the  tyrant,  unabashed  by  the  glaring  improba 
bility,  had  believed  it  too. 

The  phases  of  fashionable  life  are  never  so  mini 
mized  as  in  the  presence  of  some  great  and  grave 
actuality  of  human  experience — she  looked  back 
upon  them  now  with  a  disgusted  wonder  and  an 
averse  contempt.  The  world  for  which  she  had 
longed  in  her  quiet  rural  home,  which  had  opened  its 
doors  so  unexpectedly,  so  beatifically,  to  her  trem 
bling  entrance,  seemed  to  her  now  full  of  dull  and 
commonplace  people,  all  eagerly  pursuing  some  sor 
did  scheme  of  advancement,  regardful  of  their  fel 
lows  only  to  envy  values  which  they  do  not  share, 
to  cringe  before  consequence  and  station  which  only 
belittle  them,  to  pull  down,  if  occasion  permit,  those 
who  are  on  the  up-grade,  to  alternately  court  and 
decry  their  superiors,  and  to  revile  and  baffle  the 
humble.  And  for  a  share  in  this  world,  this  out 
look,  this  atmosphere,  she  had  bartered  her  happi 
ness,  had  destroyed  her  identity,  as  nearly  as  she 
might,  had  achieved  the  lot  of  a  lifelong  victim  to 
intolerable  tyranny. 

In  all  her  beclouded  spiritual  sky  there  had 
glowed  the  radiance  of  one  single  star,  one  pure 
and  genuine  emotion,  her  maternal  love,  bought  by 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

no  price,  asking  naught,  giving  in  an  ecstasy  of  self- 
abnegation  that  made  sacrifice  a  luxury  and  suffering 
a  joy. 

And  now  this  light  of  her  life  was  obscured  by 
dense  clouds,  and  who  could  say  how  and  when  it 
would  emerge. 

The  change  of  place,  the  sense  of  escape  acted 
in  some  sort  as  a  respite,  but  there  was  possible  no 
surcease  of  anguished  solicitude.  Her  uncle  began 
almost  immediately  the  concoction  of  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Floyd-Rosney,  which  should  be  a  triumph  of  episto 
lary  art  to  accomplish  its  ends.  He  desired  to 
remonstrate  against  the  enforced  expatriation  of 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  to  insist  on  the  propriety  of  re 
storing  her  son  to  her  care,  and  to  condemn  the 
cruelty  of  the  separation,  all  expressed  in  such  soft 
choice  locutions  as  to  give  no  offense  to  the  gusty 
temper  of  her  husband  and  to  make  no  reflections  on 
the  justice  of  his  conduct.  He  wished  to  take  a 
tone  of  authority  and  seniority  as  being  the  nearest 
and  eldest  relative  of  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  and  thus 
entitled  to  offer  his  views  and  advice  in  her  behalf, 
yet  to  avoid  seeming  intrusive  and  guilty  of  inter 
ference  between  husband  and  wife. 

As  he  wrote  at  his  desk  in  the  sitting-room,  his 
intent  grizzled  head  bent  over  the  repeated  drafts 
of  this  effort,  Paula,  passing  in  the  hall  without, 
catching  a  glimpse  of  his  occupation,  had  space  in 
her  multifarious  anguish  for  a  sense  of  deep  hu 
miliation  that  this  should  be  going  forward  in  hej 
interest.  How  she  had  flaunted  the  achievement  of 
her  great  marriage  in  this  her  simple  home,  in  the 
teeth  of  their  misgivings,  their  covert  reservations, 
their  deprecation  of  her  treatment  of  Randal  Du- 


340        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

cie.  She  had  piqued  herself  on  the  fact  that  not 
many  girls  so  placed,  so  far  from  the  madding 
crowd,  could  have  made  such  a  ten-strike  in  the  mat 
rimonial  game.  Her  standards  were  not  theirs;  her 
life  was  regulated  on  a  plane  which  did  not  con 
form  to  their  ideals,  but  as  time  went  on  they  had 
ventured  to  hope  for  the  best,  and  when  Geoffrey 
Majoribanks  had  been  asked  occasionally  if  his  niece 
had  not  made  a  very  rich  marriage  he  would  add 
"and  a  very  happy  one."  This  he  had  believed,  al 
though  in  view  of  Floyd-Rosney's  imperious  tem 
perament  and  the  process  of  his  wife's  evident  sub 
jugation,  it  must  seem  that  the  wish  had  constrained 
his  credulity.  Now  the  illusion  was  dispelled,  the 
bubble  had  burst,  and  it  devolved  upon  him  to  patch 
up  from  its  immaterial  constituent  elements  some 
semblance  of  conjugal  reconciliation  and  the  possi 
bility  of  a  degree  of  happiness  in  the  future. 

He  was  a  ready  scribe,  as  were  most  men  of  his 
day,  and  had  a  neat  gift  of  expression.  But  he 
called  for  help  continually  in  this  instance,  now  from 
his  wife,  and  throwing  ceremony  to  the  winds,  in 
view  of  the  importance  of  the  missive,  once  his 
hearty,  resonant  voice  summoned  the  party  most  in 
interest,  Paula  herself. 

"Our  object  is  to  get  the  child  restored  to  your 
care  and  to  compass  a  cessation  of  this  insistence 
that  you  shall  go  abroad, — not  to  win  in  an  argu 
ment.  Now  do  you  think  this  phrasing  could  offend 
Mr.  Floyd-Rosney,  or  wound  his  feelings?" 

Paula,  standing  tall,  pale,  listless,  beside  the  desk, 
leaning  on  one  hand  among  the  litter  of  discarded 
papers  of  the  voluminous  epistle,  looked  down  into 
his  anxious,  upturned  face,  beneath  his  tousled,  griz- 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST       341 

zled  hair,  pitying  the  limitations  of  his  perceptions. 

"Any  phrasing  will  offend  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  if 
he  wishes  to  be  offended,"  she  replied  languidly, 
uand  he  has  no  feelings  to  wound." 

She  went  slowly  out  of  the  room,  leaving  him 
meditatively  biting  the  handle  of  his  pen. 

The  letter  bade  fair  to  become  a  permanent  oc 
cupation.  He  worked  at  it  late  at  night  and  all 
the  forenoon  of  the  next  day,  and  when,  at  the  two 
o'clock  dinner,  his  wife  suggested  that  he  should 
take  Paula  out  for  a  drive  about  the  country, — she 
would  be  interested  in  seeing  how  little  it  had 
changed  since  she  was  a  resident  here — he  shook 
his  head  doggedly  over  the  big  turkey  that  he  was 
deftly  carving. 

"No, — no,"  he  said,  "I  must  get  back  to  that — 
that  document.  You  and  one  of  the  boys  can  take 
her  to  drive." 

The  "document"  was  duly  finished  at  last  and  duly 
mailed.  Then  expectation  held  the  household  to 
fever  heat.  The  return  mail  brought  nothing;  the 
next  post  was  not  more  significant;  nor  the  next; 
nor  the  next.  A  breathless  suspense  supervened. 

One  Monday  morning  Major  Majoribanks  came 
into  the  sitting-room  with  a  sheaf  of  newspapers  in 
his  trembling  hand,  a  ghastly  white  face  and  eyes  of 
living  fire.  He  could  not  speak;  he  could  scarcely 
control  his  muscles  sufficiently  to  open  a  journal  and 
point  with  a  shaking  finger  to  a  column  with  great 
headlines.  He  placed  the  newspaper  in  the  hands 
of  his  wife,  who  was  alone  in  the  room,  then  he 
went  softly  to  the  door,  closed  it,  and  sank  down 
in  an  armchair,  gasping  for  breath.  His  wife,  too, 
turned  pale  as  she  read,  but  her  hand  was  steady. 


THE   STORY   OP   DUCIEHURST 

Mr.  Edward  Floyd-Rosney,  the  paper  recited,  to 
the  great  amazement  of  the  city,  had  brought  suit 
against  his  wife  for  divorce.  The  allegations  of 
the  bill  set  forth  that  she  had  fled  from  her  home 
with  Randal  Ducie,  who  was  named  as  co-respond 
ent,  and  the  husband  made  oath  that  in  seeking 
to  intercept  and  reclaim  her,  following  her  to  the 
station  as  soon  as  he  discovered  her  absence,  he  had 
witnessed  her  departure  in  company  with  Randal 
Ducie  just  as  the  train  moved  out  of  the  shed. 

Major  Majoribanks  presently  hirpled,  for  he 
could  scarcely  walk,  across  the  room,  and  laid  his 
finger  on  another  column  in  a  different  portion  of 
the  paper,  and  treating  of  milder  sensations. 

"I  didn't  need  this  to  prove  that — that — a  base 
lie "  his  stiff  lips  enunciated  with  difficulty. 

This  paragraph  treated  of  the  current  cotton  in 
terests,  giving  extracts  from  an  address  made  by 
Randal  Ducie  in  New  Orleans  at  a  banquet  of  an 
association  interested  in  levee  protection,  on  the 
evening  and  also  at  the  hour  when  he  was  repre 
sented  in  Floyd-Rosney's  bill  as  fleeing  with  his 
neighbor's  wife  in  a  city  five  hundred  miles  distant. 
He  had  made  himself  conspicuous  as  an  advocate  of 
certain  methods  of  levee  protection,  and  his  views 
were  both  ardently  upheld  and  rancorously  contested 
even  at  the  festive  board.  The  occasion  was  thus 
less  harmonious  than  such  meetings  should  be,  and 
the  local  papers  had  much  "write-up"  besides  the 
menu  and  the  toasts,  in  the  views  of  various  plant 
ers  and  several  engineer  officers,  guests  of  the  oc 
casion,  lending  themselves  to  a  spirited  discussion 
of  Randal  Ducie's  recommendations. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

COLONEL  KENWYNTON,  now  at  his  home  on  hii 
plantation  on  the  bayou,  also  gazed  with  start 
ing  eyes  and  dumfounded  amazement  at  the 
excerpt  from  the  legal  proceedings,  within  his 
own  knowledge  so  palpably  false.  He  read  it  aloud 
under  the  kerosene  lamp  to  Hugh  Treherne  on 
the  other  side  of  the  old-fashioned  marble-topped 
center  table. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  sir?"  and  the  Colonel 
gave  the  newspaper  a  resounding  blow. 

Treherne  smiled  significantly. 

"I  am  impressed  all  the  time,  Colonel,  with  the 
insanity  of  the  people  outside  the  asylum  in  com 
parison  with  the  patients  under  treatment." 

"Good  God,  sir,"  cried  the  Colonel  in  great  ex 
citement,  "this  is  a  shotgun  business,  and  Floyd- 
Rosney  is  the  man  of  all  others  to  brazen  it  out  on 
a  plea  of  the  'unwritten  law.'  He  will  shoot  one 
or  the  other  of  the  Ducies  on  sight,  and  they  are 
as  much  alike  as  two  black-eyed  peas, — they  really 
ought  to  wear  wigs, — he  is  as  likely  to  pot  one  as 
the  other.  And  the  poor  lady!  My  heart  bleeds 
for  her.  I  must  clear  this  matter  up,"  concluded 
the  all-powerful.  "I  will  send  a  communication  to 
the  newspapers." 

Now  Colonel  Kenwynton  had,  in  his  own  opinion, 
the  pen  of  a  ready  writer.  It  was  not  his  habit  to 

343 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

mince  phrases  or  to  revise.  He  wrote  a  swift,  legible 
hand,  for  he  was  a  relic  of  an  age  when  gentlemen 
prided  themselves  on  an  elegant  penmanship,  in  the 
days  when  the  typewriter  was  not.  He  had  no  sort 
of  fear  of  offending  Floyd-Rosney,  nor  care  for 
wounding  his  feelings.  He  recited  in  great  detail  the 
facts  of  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  entrance  into  the  Ade- 
lantado  Hotel,  her  disclosure  of  her  husband's  desire 
that  she  should  tour  the  Orient  with  the  Harding- 
tons,  who  had  already  acquainted  the  writer  that 
she  was  to  be  of  their  party,  and  her  grief  because 
of  her  separation  from  her  child,  who  had  been  se 
cretly  removed  from  her  home  as  a  preparation  for 
her  departure.  Now  and  then  the  Colonel  cast  his 
eyes  upward  for  inspiration  and  waved  his  pen  at 
arm's  length. 

uNot  too  much  hot  shot,  Colonel,"  remonstrated 
Hugh  Treherne,  a  little  uneasy  at  these  demonstra 
tions. 

"Attend  to  your  own  guns,  sir,"  retorted  the 
Colonel. 

With  no  regard  for  the  awkwardness  of  the  in 
cident,  he  stated  that  the  poor  lady,  although  the 
wife  of  a  millionaire,  had  not  command  of  ten  dol 
lars  in  the  world  with  which  to  defray  the  expenses 
of  her  journey  to  the  home  of  her  youth,  and  to  her 
uncle  who  stood  in  the  relation  of  a  father  to  her, 
for  his  advice  and  protection  against  being  shipped 
out  of  the  country. 

"It  is  my  firm  belief,"  and  the  Colonel  liked  the 
words  so  well  he  read  them  aloud  to  his  comrade, 
"that  we  do  not  live  in  Turkey,  that  the  honored 
wives  of  our  Southland  do  not  occupy  the  position 
of  inmates  of  a  harem,  and  I  could  not  regard  Mrs. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        345 

Floyd-Rosney  as  the  favorite  of  a  sultan.  There* 
fore  it  afforded  Mr.  Adrian  Ducie  and  me  great 
pleasure  to  advance  the  money  for  her  tickets  to 
the  home  of  her  uncle,  Major  Majoribanks,  and 
to  see  her  on  the  train. "  He  explained,  at  great 
length,  that  the  departure  of  the  train  was  so  im 
minent  and  immediate  that  Adrian  Ducie  bought 
tickets  to  the  first  station  for  himself  and  Colonel 
Kenwynton,  in  order  that  they  might  not  be  de 
tained  by  any  question  at  the  gate,  and,  at  the  mo 
ment  of  boarding  the  cars,  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney, 
"hunting  down  the  persecuted  fugitive,"  had  mis 
taken  Adrian  Ducie  for  his  brother,  Randal  Ducie, 
who  at  this  moment  was  in  New  Orleans,  making 
an  address  to  the  Mississippi  River  Association, 
giving  them  the  benefit  of  his  very  enlightened  views, 
which  the  whole  country  would  do  well  to  study 
and  adopt,  thereby  saving  many  thousands  of  dollars 
to  the  cotton  planters  of  the  jeopardized  delta. 

Restraining  himself  with  difficulty  from  pursuing 
this  attractive  subject,  Colonel  Kenwynton  explained 
that  while  Randal  Ducie  was  an  old  acquaintance  of 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's,  Adrian  Ducie  was  a  stranger 
to  her,  and  had  met  her  only  on  one  previous  occa 
sion.  The  undersigned  and  Adrian  Ducie  had  ac 
companied  the  poor  lady  so  far  as  the  first  station, 
and  taking  farewell  of  her  they  had  returned  to  town 
in  the  interurban  electric.  He  furthermore  informed 
the  public  that  in  view  of  some  possible  unforeseen 
emergency  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  pressing  upon 
this  poor  lady,  absolutely  unprovided  with  money 
for  her  necessities,  a  twenty  dollar  bill,  to  be  re 
turned  at  her  pleasure,  and  had  since  received  a 
letter  from  her  uncle,  inclosing  that  sum,  and  thank- 


346        THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

ing  him  for  his  consideration.  At  the  home  of  this 
uncle — the  home  of  her  girlhood — she  was  now 
domiciled  with  him  and  her  aunt,  who  was  formerly 
the  charming  Miss  Azalia  Thornton,  whom  many 
elder  members  of  society  would  well  remember. 

The  Colonel  was  enjoying  himself  famously,  and 
now  and  again  Hugh  Treherne  looked  anxiously 
over  the  top  of  the  newspaper  at  him  as  he  tossed 
the  multiplying  pages  across  his  left  hand,  and  took 
a  fresh  sheet. 

The  Colonel,  with  keen  gusto,  then  entered  on 
the  subject  of  Floyd-Rosney,  whom  he  handled  with 
out  gloves.  There  ought  to  be  some  adequate  crimi 
nal  procedure,  he  argued,  for  a  man  who  had  offered 
such  an  indignity  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom  as  this. 
If  an  equivalent  insult  could  have  been  tendered 
to  a  man  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  would  have  been  shot 
down  in  his  tracks — or,  at  the  least,  have  been 
made  to  pay  roundly  for  his  brutality.  But  the 
wife,  whom  he  has  sworn  to  love,  honor,  and  cher 
ish,  is  defenseless  against  his  hasty,  groundless  con 
clusions.  She  can  only  meekly  prove  her  innocence 
of  a  guilt  that  it  is  like  the  torments  of  hell-fire  to 
name  in  connection  with  her.  Colonel  Kenwynton 
solemnly  commended  to  our  lawmakers  the  consid 
eration  of  this  subject  of  a  penalty  of  unfounded 
marital  charges.  The  converse  of  the  proposition 
never  occurred  to  him.  In  his  philosophy  the  women 
were  welcome  to  say  what  they  liked  about  the  men. 

If,  he  maintained,  the  gentleman  accompanying 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  had  been  Randal  Ducie  instead 
of  his  brother,  the  circumstance  would  have  sig 
nified  naught  with  a  lady  of  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's 
character,  which  the  good  people  of  this  city  would 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        347 

uphold  against  her  husband  even  backed  by  all  his 
filthy  lucre.  But  Randal  Ducie  was  in  New  Orleans 
making  an  address  on  levee  conditions,  on  which 
subject  his  brother  Adrian  was  peculiarly  unin 
formed,  and  it  did  seem  to  Colonel  Kenwynton  that 
almost  any  man  would  have  learned  more  from  sheer 
observation,  even  though  he  had  been  absent  from 
the  country  for  the  past  six  years.  He  was  now 
in  Memphis,  where,  being  singularly  like  his  twin 
brother,  he  was  mistaken  for  Randal  Ducie,  well 
known  here,  and  his  arrival  thus  chronicled  in  the 
papers.  Adrian  Ducie  was  not  widely  acquainted  in 
Memphis,  having  spent  the  last  six  years  in  the  south 
of  France,  where  he  was  interested  in  silk  manu 
facture. 

If  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney's  course,  declared  the 
Colonel,  pursuing  the  subject,  in  forcing  a  ghastly 
round  of  pleasure  on  his  wife,  sighing  for  her  ab 
sent  child,  was  typical  of  his  domestic  methods,  his 
wife  was  a  martyr.  When  she  would  insist  on  hav 
ing  her  child  restored  to  her  arms  one  could  im 
agine  his  saying — "Go  to,  woman,  where  is  your 
pug!"  Colonel  Kenwynton  ardently  hoped  that  the 
pressure  of  public  opinion  would  force  Mr.  Floyd- 
Rosney  to  disregard  no  longer  the  holy  claims  of 
motherhood,  and  give  back  this  child  to  the  aching 
arms  of  his  wife.  The  heart  of  every  man  that  ever 
had  a  mother  was  fired  in  revolt  against  him,  despite 
his  wealth,  that  cannot  buy  sycophancy,  and  abject 
acquiescence  and  pusillanimous  silence  from  us. 

The  Colonel  admired  the  rolling  periods  of  his 
production  so  much  that  he  read  aloud  with  relish 
the  whole  effort  from  the  beginning. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Hugh?"  he  demanded. 


348        THE    STORY    OP   DUCIEHURST 

"I  think  the  paper  won't  publish  it,"  said  Hugh 
Treherne. 

The  paper,  however,  did  publish  it  The  position 
of  Floyd-Rosney  in  the  affair,  as  the  incontestable 
facts  began  to  be  elicited,  took  on  so  sorry  an  aspect 
that  he  was  hardly  in  case  to  bring  an  action  for  libel, 
and  the  Colonel's  letter  was  good  for  the  sale  of  a 
double  edition.  People  read  it  with  raised  eyebrows 
and  deprecation,  and  several  said  the  Colonel  was 
a  dangerous  man  and  ought  to  have  his  hands  tied 
behind  him.  But  the  plain  truth,  so  plainly  set  forth, 
the  old  traditions  which  he  had  invoked,  which  they 
had  all  imbibed  more  or  less,  went  far  to  reinstating 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  position,  and  to  exhibit  her 
husband's  character  in  a  most  damaged  and  disas 
trous  disparagement.  He  was  advised  by  his  coun 
sel,  who  were  disconcerted  in  the  last  extreme  by 
being  connected  in  so  disreputable  a  proceeding,  that 
the  only  course  open  to  policy  and  prudence  and  the 
prospect  of  conserving  any  place  in  public  esteem, 
was  to  retract  absolutely  and  immediately,  frankly 
confessing  a  mistake  of  identity,  and  to  restore  the 
child  to  the  custody  of  his  mother. 

"Even  that  won't  mend  the  matter,"  said  Mr. 
Stacey — his  face  corrugated  with  lines  unknown  to 
his  placid  sharpness  when  he  and  his  firm  had  no 
personal  concern.  He  had  nerves  for  his  own  inter 
est,  though  not  an  altruistic  quiver  for  his  client. 

"All  the  world  thinks,"  he  continued,  "that  you 
are  as  jealous  as  a  Turk,  and  that  will  add  a  sen 
sational  interest  to  the  Duciehurst  suit,  of  a  kind  that 
I  despise" — he  actually  looked  pained — "when  it  is 
developed  that  your  wife  found  and  restored  the 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        349 

Ducie  papers.  I  wish  you  had  taken  my  advice;  I 
wish  you  had  taken  my  advice." 

And  Floyd-Rosney  said  never  a  word. 

He  had  come  to  be  more  plastic  to  counsel  than  of 
yore,  and  in  a  few  days  thereafter  the  train  made 
its  infrequent  stoppage  at  Ingleside,  and  deposited 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  favorite  old  colored  servant 
and  her  little  charge,  who  sturdily  trudged  through 
the  grove  of  great  trees — vast,  indeed,  to  his  eyes — 
and  suddenly  appeared  in  the  hall  before  his  mother, 
with  a  tale  of  wonder  relating  to  the  bears,  which 
he  believed  might  be  skulking  about  among  the  giant 
oaks. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

FLOYD-ROSNEY  had  expected  that  the  restoration 
of  the  child  to  the  mother  would  effect  an  immedi 
ate  reconciliation  with  his  wife.  Therefore,  he  at 
tained  a  serenity,  a  renewal  of  self-confidence  which 
he  had  not  enjoyed  since  the  humiliating  contretemps 
at  Union  Station.  In  the  dismissal  of  his  bill  for 
divorce — the  retraxit  craftily  worded  and  expressing 
with  a  dignity  that  might  have  seemed  impossible 
under  the  circumstances  his  contrition  for  the  hasty 
and  offensive  assumptions  of  his  mistake,  a  sweep 
ing  recantation  of  all  his  charges  and  a  complete 
endorsement  of  his  wife's  actions  in  every  relation  of 
life, — he  considered  he  had  offered  her  an  ample 
apology  for  his  conduct  and  had  held  out  a  very 
alluring  olive  branch.  He  had  a  relish,  too,  of  the 
surprise  he  had  planned,  partly  to  avoid  a  more  per 
sonal  method  to  court  her  forgiveness,  in  sending  the 
child  in  charge  of  her  favorite  servant,  old  Aunt 
Dorothy,  to  alight  unheralded  from  the  train  at 
Ingleside.  He  imagined  her  delight  and  gratitude 
and  awaited,  in  smiling  anticipation,  altogether  de 
void  of  anxiety,  her  ebullient  letter,  brimming  with 
thanks  and  endearments,  and  taking  the  blame,  as 
she  was  wont  to  do  in  their  differences,  in  that  she 
had  so  misunderstood  him  and  precipitated  this 
series  of  perverse  happenings  that  had  exposed  him 
to  such  cruel  public  misconstruction. 

350 


THE   STORY   OP   DUCIEHURST        S51 

But  this  letter  did  not  come. 

He  began  to  frown  when  the  mail  was  brought  in, 
and  to  sort  the  missives  with  a  hasty  touch  for  some 
thing  that  he  did  not  find.  The  servants,  always  on 
the  alert  to  observe,  and  agog  about  the  successive 
phases  of  the  scandal  which  they  had  witnessed  at 
such  close  quarters,  collogued  over  the  fact  that  he 
laid  the  rest  of  the  mail  aside  unopened  for  hours, 
while  he  sat  with  a  clouded  brow  and  a  reflective, 
unnoting  eye  in  glum  silence,  unsolaced  even  by  a 
cigar.  It  was  not  good  to  speak  to  him  at  these 
crises,  and  the  house  was  as  still  as  a  tomb. 

Floyd-Rosney's  ascendency  in  life  had  been  so 
great,  so  fostered  by  his  many  worldly  advantages, 
that  he  could  make  no  compact  with  denial,  defeat. 
He  had  not  yet  reached  the  point  where  he  could 
write  to  his  wife  and  beg  her  forgiveness,  or  even 
reproach  her  with  her  agency  in  the  disasters  that 
had  whelmed  their  domestic  life  in  this  unseemly 
publicity.  He  developed  an  ingenuity  in  devising 
reasons  for  her  silence.  She  was  too  proud;  he  had 
let  her  have  her  head  too  long.  She  would  not  write 
— she  would  not  verbally  admit  that  she  condoned 
his  odious  charges,  which  he  often  declared  he  had 
a  right  to  make,  if  he  were  to  believe  the  testimony 
of  his  eyes,  witnessing  her  flight  with  her  old  lover, 
Randal  Ducie,  as  he  was  convinced,  boarding  the 
train  together.  She  would  simply  return  unheralded, 
unexplained, — and  that  was  best!  He  had  himself 
inaugurated  this  method  in  restoring  the  child  with 
out  a  word.  It  was  a  subject  that  could  not  be  dis 
cussed  between  them,  with  all  its  sensitive  nerves, 
with  its  open  wounds  quivering  with  anguished  trem 
ors.  No  1  She  would  come  to  her  home,  her  hearth- 


352       THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

stone,  her  husband,  as  she  had  every  right  to  do, 
even  paying  all  tribute  to  her  pride,  to  her  sense  of 
insulted  delicacy.  He  saw  to  it  that  the  papers 
containing  the  text  of  his  full  retraction  and  expla 
nation  of  the  circumstances  were  mailed  to  her,  and 
then  adjusted  himself  anew  to  waiting  and  anticipa 
tion. 

He  had  been  spared  in  the  details  of  his  life  all 
the  torments  of  suspense  which  harass  men  less  for 
tunately  placed.  It  may  be  doubted  if  ever  before 
he  had  had  cause  to  anticipate  and  await  an  event, 
and  hope,  and  be  deferred  and  denied.  He  could 
scarcely  brook  the  delay.  He  began  to  fear  that 
he  should  be  obliged  to  write  and  summon  her  home. 
Once  he  even  thought  of  going  in  person  to  escort 
her  back,  and  but  that  he  shrank  from  meeting  her 
eye,  all  unprepared  as  she  would  be,  he  would  have 
followed  little  Ned  to  Ingleside.  Something  might 
be  said  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  to  widen  the 
breach.  He  could  not  depend  upon  her — he  could 
not  depend  upon  himself.  She  knew  the  state  of  his 
mind,  he  argued.  Those  papers,  most  astutely,  more 
delicately  than  any  words  of  his  might  compass,  had 
depicted  his  whole  mental  status.  Doubtless,  after 
a  seemly  diplomatic  interval  she  would  return.  The 
sooner  the  better,  he  felt  in  eager  impatience.  He 
had  hardly  known  how  dearly  he  loved  her,  he  de 
clared  to  himself,  interpreting  his  restiveness  under 
the  suffocations  of  suspense  and  anxiety  as  symp 
toms  of  his  revived  affection.  He  became  so  sure 
of  this  happy  solution  of  the  whole  cruel  imbroglio 
that  he  acted  upon  it  as  if  he  had  credible  assurance 
of  the  fact.  He  caused  certain  minor  changes,  which 
she  had  desired,  to  be  made  in  the  house — changes 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        353 

to  which  he  had  no  objection,  but  he  had  never  taken 
thought  to  gratify  her  preference.  He  ordered  the 
suite  of  rooms  that  she  had  occupied  to  be  thor 
oughly  overhauled  in  such  a  fever  of  haste  that  the 
domestic  force  expected  to  see  the  lady  of  the  man 
sion  installed  in  her  realm  before  a  readjustment 
was  possible.  At  last  everything  was  complete  and 
exquisite,  and  Floyd-Rosney,  patrolling  the  apart 
ments  with  a  keen  and  critical  eye,  could  find  no 
fault  to  challenge  his  minute  and  censorious  obser 
vation.  A  new  lady's  maid  was  engaged,  of  more 
skill  and  pretensions  than  the  functionary  he  had 
driven  from  his  service,  and  had  already  entered 
upon  her  duties  in  the  rearrangement  of  her  mis 
tress's  wardrobe,  and  the  chauffeur  took  heedful 
thought  of  the  railroad  timetables,  that  he  might 
not  be  out  of  the  way  when  the  limousine  should  be 
ordered  to  meet  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  at  Union  Sta 
tion. 

Under  these  circumstances  the  filing  of  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney's  bill  for  divorce  and  alimony  fell 
like  a  bombshell  upon  the  defenseless  head  of  her 
husband.  It  was  a  genuine  and  fierce  demonstra 
tion,  evidently  calculated  to  take  advantage  of  every 
point  that  might  contribute  to  the  eventuation  of  a 
decree.  The  allegations  of  cruelty  and  tyranny,  of 
which  there  were  many  instances  that  Floyd-Rosney, 
in  his  marital  autocracy  had  long  ago  forgotten,  in 
cluding  the  crafty  blow  which  he  had  given  her  under 
the  cloak  of  the  child  in  her  arms,  were  supplemented 
and  illustrated  by  the  secret  removal  of  her  child 
from  her  care,  and  the  determination  to  ship  her 
out  of  the  country  against  her  will.  Thus  she  had 


354        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

been  constrained  in  defense  of  her  personal  liberty 
to  flee  to  the  home  of  her  uncle,  her  nearest  rela 
tive,  although  she  was  obliged  to  borrow  the  money 
for  the  railroad  fare  from  a  mere  stranger  whom 
she  had  met  only  once  before.  Notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  her  husband  was  several  times  a  million 
aire,  he  permitted  her  no  command  of  money,  her 
fine  clothes  and  jewels  and  equipages  being  accorded 
merely  to  decorate  the  appurtenances  of  his  wealth 
and  ostentation.  She  recounted  the  indignity  she 
had  causelessly  suffered  in  the  allegations  of  his  bill 
for  divorce,  all  baseless  and  unproved  as  was  evi 
denced  by  their  complete  retraction  under  oath  in 
the  precipitate  dismissal  of  the  bill.  Her  petition 
concluded  by  praying  for  an  absolute  divorce  with 
alimony  and  the  custody  of  the  child. 

This  document  was  not  filed  without  many  mis 
givings  on  the  part  of  Major  Majoribanks  and  of 
horrified  protest  from  his  wife.  Ingleside  was  re 
mote  from  modern  progress  and  improvements,  and 
such  advantages  as  might  accrue  from  successfully 
prosecuting  a  suit  for  divorce  won  but  scant  con 
sideration  there.  The  worthy  couple  were  firm  in 
their  own  conviction  that  marriage  should  not  be  con 
sidered  a  temporary  connection.  It  was,  to  their 
minds,  a  lifelong  and  holy  joining  together,  and 
should  not  be  put  asunder.  Mrs.  Majoribanks  made 
some  remarks  so  very  old-fashioned  as  almost  to 
excite  Paula's  laughter,  despite  the  seriousness  of 
the  subject.  It  was  a  wife's  duty  to  put  up  with  her 
husband's  foibles,  to  overlook  little  unkindnesses; 
the  two  should  learn  to  bear  and  forbear  in  their 
mutual  imperfections.  Had  she  ever  remonstrated 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        355 

gently,  with  wifely  lovingness,  with  Mr.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney's  harshness? 

"I  didn't  dare,"  said  Paula.  And  the  mere  phrase 
was  an  instance  in  point. 

A  woman's  craft  in  reading  hearts  is  a  subtle  en 
dowment.  Mrs.  Majoribanks  had  not  kept  step 
with  the  onward  march  of  the  world,  but  she  struck 
a  note  that  vibrated  more  in  accord  with  Paula's 
temperament  when  she  said: 

"It  is  often  a  hardship  in  point  of  worldly  esti 
mation  to  be  a  divorced  woman." 

She  looked  cautiously  at  Paula  over  her  spec 
tacles,  for  in  the  old  days  no  one  had  been  more  a 
respecter  of  the  opinions  of  smart  people  than  her 
husband's  niece. 

"Oh,  that  isn't  the  case  any  more,"  said  Paula 
lightly,  with  a  little  fleering  laugh,  "it  is  quite  fash 
ionable  now  to  have  a  divorce  decree." 

"You  may  depend  upon  it,"  Mrs.  Majoribanks 
said  in  private  to  her  husband,  "Paula  is  reckoning 
on  winning  back  Randal  Ducie !  And,  to  my  mind, 
that  is  the  worst  feature  of  the  whole  horrible  af 
fair." 

Major  Majoribanks  did  not  altogether  concur 
in  his  wife's  views  of  the  possible  efficacy  of  gentle 
suasion  on  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney's  irascibilities.  Per 
haps  he  knew  more  of  the  indurated  heart  of  that 
type  of  man.  The  Major  had  been  greatly  im 
pressed  by  the  attempt  upon  his  niece's  personal 
liberty,  as  he  interpreted  the  insistence  on  the  Ori 
ental  tour  and,  although  he  welcomed  little  Ned 
with  an  enthusiasm  that  might  have  befitted  a  grand 
father,  he  was  apprehensive  concerning  the  child's 
return  as  an  overture  of  reconciliation,  He  felt 


356        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

his  responsibility  in  the  situation  very  acutely.  He 
did  not  favor  the  plan  of  seeking  merely  a  legal 
separation  and  maintenance,  which  his  wife  advo 
cated,  because  it  was  not  conclusive;  it  would  be  re 
garded  by  Floyd-Rosney  as  temporary  and  would 
render  Paula  liable  to  pressure  to  recur  to  their 
previous  status.  He  did  not  consider  his  niece  safe 
with  her  arrogant  and  arbitrary  husband,  as  the  at 
tempt  to  enforce  a  tour  alone  with  casual  acquaint 
ances  to  the  Orient  amply  proved.  The  extreme 
measure  of  secretly  removing  the  child  from  her 
companionship  and  care  as  means  of  subjugation 
might  be  repeated  when  circumstances  of  public  opin 
ion  did  not  coerce  his  restoration.  Mrs.  Majori- 
banks  had  not  a  more  squeamish  distaste  for  divorce 
than  her  husband,  nor  did  she  entertain  a  deeper 
reverence  for  the  sacredness  of  the  bonds  of  matri 
mony.  But  he  reflected  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  it 
was  not  his  duty  to  seek  to  impose  his  own  views  on 
his  niece.  Paula  was  permitted  by  law  to  judge  and 
act  for  herself,  and  she  had  had  much  experience 
which  had  aided  in  determining  her  course.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  urge  her  to  condone  the  insup 
portable  allegations  in  the  bill  of  divorce  which 
Floyd-Rosney  had  filed  and  allowed  to  be  made  pub 
lic,  and  to  trust  herself  and  the  child  once  more  in  his 
clutches.  She  had  now  the  wind  of  public  favor  in  her 
sails.  Her  husband  had  committed  himself  so  openly 
and  so  irretrievably  that  it  was  probable  that  the  cus 
tody  of  the  child  would  be  awarded  to  her  in  view  of 
his  tender  years.  Later,  when  time  should  have 
somewhat  repaired  the  tatters  of  Floyd-Rosney's 
status  in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  when  the  inevi 
table  influence  and  importance  of  so  rich  a  man 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST        357 

should  begin  to  make  themselves  felt  anew,  it  might 
be  more  difficult  for  her  to  contend  against  him.  If 
ever  she  could  hope  to  free  herself  from  him  and 
his  tyrannies,  and  his  unimaginable  machinations  in 
the  future,  now  was  the  opportunity  and  this  the 
cause  of  complaint.  He  might  not  again  give  her 
so  palpable  and  undeniable  an  occasion  of  insup 
portable  affront.  Major  Majoribanks,  even  in  the 
seclusion  of  Ingleside,  took  note  of  the  penniless 
estate  of  the  wife  of  the  millionaire  as  she  fled  from 
her  richly  appointed  home,  and  gave  due  weight  to 
the  fact  that  the  decree  would  assure  her  future 
comfort  by  requiring  alimony  in  proportion  to  the 
husband's  means.  There  was  no  obligation  on  him 
to  deprive  her  of  her  due  maintenance  and  pro 
tection  by  the  urgency  of  his  advice,  although  his 
wife  goaded  him  with  her  strict  interpretations  of 
his  duty,  and  his  brow  clouded  whenever  she  men 
tioned  her  belief  of  the  influence  of  the  expectation 
of  winning  back  Randal  Ducie  upon  Paula's  deter 
mination. 

Paula  had  thus  the  half-hearted  support  of  her 
relatives  in  her  proceedings,  and  she  was  grateful 
even  for  this,  saying  to  herself  that  with  their  limi 
tations  she  could  hardly  have  expected  more.  She 
was  eager  and  hopeful,  and,  to  Mrs.  Majoribanks's 
displeasure,  not  more  sensitive  to  the  mention  of 
the  proceedings  than  if  they  had  involved  a  trans 
action  concerning  cotton  or  corn.  The  three  Ma 
joribanks  boys  were  excited  on  the  possibility  of  an 
attempt  to  kidnap  little  Edward,  since  the  filing  of 
the  bill,  and  they  kept  him,  in  alternation,  under 
close  and  strict  surveillance  night  and  day. 

"It  would  be  impossible  to  spirit  him  away  from 


358        THE    STORY    OF   BUCIEHURST 

Ingleside,"  they  bluffly  contended,  and  to  their 
mother's  great  though  unexpressed  displeasure  their 
father  did  not  rebuke  their  bluster. 

"We  all  talk  of  getting  the  decree,"  she  said  in 
connubial  privacy,  "as  if  it  were  a  diploma." 

He  nodded  ruefully.  But  he  was  the  more  pro 
gressive  of  the  two. 

And  in  this  feeble  and  sorry  wise  the  influence 
of  modern  civilization  began  to  impinge  on  the  prim 
itive  convictions  and  traditions  of  Ingleside. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

ADRIAN  DUCIE  was  affronted  beyond  measure  by 
the  unseemly  notoriety  given  to  his  part  in  the  Floyd- 
Rosney  incident,  in  the  subsequent  publications 
emanating  from  various  sources.  The  serious 
menace,  however,  that  the  circumstances  held  for 
Randal  moderated  for  a  time  his  indignation.  He 
thought  it  not  improbable  that  Floyd-Rosney  would 
shoot  Randal  Ducie  on  sight,  and  ha  greatly  depre 
cated  the  fact  that  his  brother  was  chronicled  by 
the  New  Orleans  papers  as  having  quitted  that  city, 
on  his  way  to  Memphis,  returning  by  boat. 

"Why  didn't  the  fellow  stay  where  he  was  until 
matters  should  have  developed  more  acceptably?" 
Adrian  fumed  in  mingled  disgust  and  apprehen 
sion.  His  anxiety  was  somewhat  assuaged  in  the 
meantime  when  Colonel  Kenwynton's  letter  ap 
peared,  and  more  especially  when  Floyd-Rosney 
withdrew  his  petition  for  divorce — a  definite  con 
fession  of  his  clumsy  mistake.  Still  in  Adrian's 
opinion  latent  fires  slumbered  under  the  volcanic 
crust,  as  this  sudden  eruption  had  proved.  This 
city  was  no  place  for  the  bone  of  contention  be 
tween  husband  and  wife.  The  season  for  the  prep 
arations  for  cotton  planting  was  already  well  ad 
vanced.  Assuredly  it  was  seemly  and  desirable  for 
Randal  to  repair  to  his  plantation  and  supervise  the 

359 


360        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

operations  of  his  manager  and  his  laborers.  Ad 
rian  found  his  own  stay  in  the  city  harassing  to  his 
exacerbated  nerves.  The  questioning  stare  of  men 
whom  he  passed  on  the  streets,  who  looked  as  if 
they  expected  salutation,  in  default  of  which  sur 
mised  that  this  was  the  twin  brother,  hero  of  the 
Floyd-Rosney  esclandre,  annoyed  him  by  its  con 
stant  repetition,  and  gave  his  face  a  repellant  reserve 
which  the  countenance  of  the  gentle  and  genial  Ran 
dal  had  never  known.  A  dozen  times  he  was  more 
intimately  assailed,  "Hey,  Ran,  old  man,  how  goes 
it?"  with  perhaps  a  quizzical  leer,  or  an  eager  hope 
fulness  that  some  discussion  of  the  reigning  sensa 
tion  of  the  day  might  not  be  too  intrusive.  When 
the  stranger  was  enlightened,  not  abruptly,  however, 
for  Adrian  was  cautious  to  refrain  from  alienating 
Randal's  friends,  the  comments  on  the  wonderful 
likeness  implied  an  accession  of  interest  in  the  sig 
nificant  incident  in  Union  Station,  and,  doubtless, 
many  a  surmise  as  to  what  had  betided  heretofore 
to  arouse  the  lion  in  the  husband's  breast.  Ob 
viously,  both  the  brothers  for  every  reason  should 
be  removed  from  the  public  eye  till  the  story  was 
stale;  but,  although  Adrian  felt  this  keenly,  he  him 
self  could  not  get  away  in  view  of  the  interests  of 
his  firm  in  an  important  silk  deal  with  a  large  con 
cern  desiring  to  treat  directly  with  the  represen 
tative  of  the  manufacturers. 

He  had  never  cared  so  little  to  see  his  brother 
as  one  day  when  the  door  of  his  bedroom  in  the 
hotel  unceremoniously  opened  and  Randal  entered. 
He  had  deprecated  the  effect  of  all  this  publicity  on 
the  most  sensitive  emotions  of  that  high-strung  and 
spirited  nature.  He  was  proud,  too,  and  winced 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        361 

from  the  realization  that  all  the  world  should  be 
canvassing  the  fact  of  Randal's  rejection  by  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney  in  her  girlhood  days.  She  had  treated 
him  cruelly,  and  had  dashed  her  plighted  troth,  his 
love,  his  happiness  to  the  ground  with  not  a  mo 
ment's  compunction,  for  a  marriage  of  splendor  and 
wealth — "and,"  said  Adrian  grimly  to  himself,  "for 
it  she  has  got  all  that  was  coming  to  her." 

He  felt  for  Randal.  His  heart  burned  within 
him. 

"Why,  who  is  this  that  I  see  here?"  cried  Randal 
gaily,  as  he  entered.  "Not  myself  in  a  mirror  surely, 
for  I  never  looked  half  so  glum  in  all  my  life." 

There  was  a  hearty  handclasp,  and  a  sort  of 
facetious  fraternal  hug,  after  the  fashion  of  men 
who  humorously  disguise  a  deeper  emotion,  and  they 
were  presently  seated  in  great  amity  before  the  glow 
ing  fire. 

"This  is  imported  Oriental  tobacco,"  said  Ad 
rian,  handing  his  brother  a  cigar. 

"Imported  from  where — the  corner  drugstore?" 
demanded  Randal,  laughing,  his  face  illumined  by 
the  flicker  of  the  lighted  match. 

"Genuine  Ladikieh,"  protested  Adrian. 

"It's  like  carrying  coals  to  Newcastle  to  pay  duty 
on  tobacco  in  America." 

"I  didn't  say  I  paid  any  duty,  did  I?" 

"Oh,  you  haven't  the  grit  to  smuggle  anything 
through,  and  if  you  had  you  would  have  brought 
enough  to  generously  divvy  up  with  me." 

He  sent  off  a  fragrant  puff,  stretched  out  luxur 
iously  in  his  armchair,  and  turned  his  clear  eyes 
upon  his  brother. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence. 


362        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"I  read  the  report  of  your  address  in  the  papers. 
It  was  very  able  and  convincing." 

"I'd  care  more  for  your  compliments  if  you  un 
derstood  the  subject,"  declared  Randal  cavalierly. 
Then,  roguishly,  "Is  that  all  you  have  read  about  me 
in  the  papers  lately?" 

Adrian  stared,  dumfounded.  And  he  had  so 
wincingly  deprecated  the  effect  of  this  limelight  of 
publicity  upon  the  shrinking  heart  of  the  rejected 
lover. 

"I  think  it  very  hard  you  should  be  subjected  to 
this,"  he  began  sympathetically. 

"Who — I?  Why, — I  was  never  so  pleased  in 
my  life!" 

"Why — what  do  you  mean,  Randal?  It  is  a  very 
serious  matter;  it  might  have  had  a  life-and-death 
significance." 

"Serious  enough  for  Floyd-Rosney,"  Randal 
laughed  bluffly.  "Did  ever  a  fellow  so  befool  him 
self,  and  call  all  the  world  to  witness!  Of  course, 
I  deprecate  the  publicity  for  the  lady,  but  every 
body  understands  the  situation.  It  does  not  injure 
her  position  in  the  least.  That  is  the  kind  of  hus 
band  she  wanted — and  she  has  got  him." 

Adrian  silently  smoked  a  few  moments. 

"I  never  was  so  affronted  in  my  life,"  he  said. 

Once  more  Randal  laughed.  "I  was  simply  en 
chanted,"  he  declared. 

"Honestly,  Randal,  I  don't  understand  you,"  said 
Adrian,  holding  his  cigar  delicately  in  his  fingers. 

"Oh,  I  am  very  simple,  quite  transparent,  in  fact." 

Adrian  shook  his  head,  restoring  his  cigar  to  his 
lips.  "Don't  make  you  out,  old  man." 

"Because  you  have  never  been  told  by  a  lady  to 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        363 

take  foot  in  hand,  and  toddle !  Discarded — re 
jected — despised!  Therefore" — with  a  strong  puff 
— "you  can't  know  what  a  keen  joy  it  is  to  realize 
that  you  are  still  important  enough  to  be  the  cause 
of  domestic  discord  between  husband  and  wife,  when 
you  haven't  seen  the  lady  but  once  in  five  years,  and 
then  in  his  presence,  besides,  being  five  hundred 
miles  away,  meekly  babbling  about  levee  protection." 

Adrian  stared.     uAnd  you  like  that?" 

"Like  it?     It  goes  to  the  cockles  of  my  heart." 

"Randal,  I  should  never  have  thought  it  of  you," 
said  Adrian  rebukingly. 

"Because,  kid,  I  am  older  than  you  and  know 
many  things  that  you  haven't  learned.  I  got  a  little 
bit  the  start  of  you  in  life  and  I  have  kept  ahead 
of  you  ever  since,"  Randal  declared  whimsically. 

"I  can't  comprehend  how  you  like  to  be  mixed  up 
in  that  miserable  misunderstanding." 

"Why,  it  flatters  me  to  death.  She  couldn't  put 
me  out  of  her  heart,  although  she  could  and  did 
lacerate  terribly  my  heart.  Floyd-Rosney  is  jeal 
ous  of  my  very  existence.  But  for  that  he  would 
have  inferred  no  more  from  seeing  me,  as  he 
thought,  assisting  her  to  board  the  train  than  any  in 
cidental  acquaintance  tendering  that  courtesy.  He 
is  not  disturbed  that  you  boarded  the  train  with 
her." 

"You  are  jealous  of  Floyd-Rosney,"  said  Adrian 
abruptly. 

Randal  thrust  his  cigar  between  his  lips  and  spoke 
indistinctly  with  this  obstruction.  "Not  I,"  he 
laughed.  "Not  under  these  circumstances." 

Adrian  was  frowning  anxiously.  The  two  faces, 
so  alike  in  feature,  were  curiously  dissimilar  at  the 


364        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

moment,  the  one  so  genially  confiding,  the  expres 
sion  of  the  other,  alert,  expectant,  with  a  grave 
prophetic  rebuke. 

"Look  here,  Randal,"  Adrian  said  seriously,  "you 
perturb  me  very  much.  You  speak  actually  as  if 
you  are  still — still  sentimentally  interested  in  this 
woman — another  man's  wife — because  you  dis 
cover " 

"That  both  she  and  her  husband  are  sentimentally 
interested  in  me;  ha!  ha!  ha!"  Randal  interrupted. 

"I  could  never  imagine  such  a  thing, — it  perturbs 
me,"  Adrian  persisted  seriously. 

"It  perturbs  me,  too,"  declared  Randal  quizzi 
cally,  "to  have  you  gadding  about  in  my  likeness, 
escorting  other  men's  wives, — the  gay  Lothario  that 
you  are ! — and  getting  me  into  the  papers,  the  pub 
lic  prints.  Oh,  fie,  fie." 

"And  she  is  another  man's  wife,"  remonstrated 
Adrian. 

"She  won't  be  long  if  she  has  a  spark  of  spirit 
left,"  declared  Randal  boldly.  "She  will  bring  suit 
for  divorce  herself." 

"But  I  doubt  if  she  can  get  it,"  said  Adrian  in  dis 
may. 

The  difference  of  mood  made  itself  manifest  in 
the  tones  of  their  voices — Adrian's  crisp,  impera 
tive,  even  tinctured  with  sternness,  Randal's  care 
less,  musical,  drawling. 

"Oh,  she  can  get  it  fast  enough.  I  should  think 
from  what  I  observed  of  his  manner  to  her  she  could 
prove  enough  instances  of  cruelty  and  tyranny  to 
melt  almost  any  trial  judge." 

Adrian  reflected  silently  upon  the  episodes  on  the 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        365 

Cherokee  Rose,  but  kept  his  own  counsel,  while  the 
smoke  curled  softly  above  the  duplicate  heads. 

"When  I  saw  them  together,"  observed  Randal, 
"he  impressed  me  as  being  a  veritable  despot,  and 
in  a  queer  way,  too.  I  can't  understand  his  satis 
faction  in  it.  He  arrogated  the  largest  liberty  to 
criticize  her  views  and  actions,  as  if  his  dictum  were 
the  fiat  of  last  resort.  I  tell  you  now,  kid,  criticism 
and  cavil  in  themselves  are  incompatible  with  love. 
No  man  can  depreciate  and  adore  at  the  same  time 
the  same  object.  When  he  thinks  the  feet  of  his 
idol  are  of  clay  the  whole  structure  might  as  well 
come  down  at  once.  He  seemed  to  have  a  certain 
perversity,  and  this  is  a  connubial  foible  I  have 
seen  in  better  men,  too ;  a  tendency  to  contradict  her 
in  small,  immaterial  matters  for  the  sheer  pleasure 
of  contrariety,  I  suppose, — to  oppose  her,  to  balk 
her,  merely  because  he  could  with  impunity.  I  im 
agine  he  has  enjoyed  a  long  lease  of  this  impunity 
because  his  perversity  has  attained  such  unusual  pro 
portions,  and  her  plunges  of  opposition  had  the  style 
of  sudden  revolt  rather  than  the  practiced  habit  of 
contention.  She  has  lived  a  life  of  repression  and 
submission  with  him.  Her  identity  is  pretty  much 
annihilated.  The  Paula  of  her  earlier  days  is  nearly 
all  disappeared." 

For  a  few  moments  Adrian  said  nothing  in  re 
sponse  to  this  keen  analysis  of  character,  which  cor 
responded  so  well  to  his  longer  opportunity  of  ob 
servation,  but  sat  silently  eyeing  the  fire  in  serious 
thought. 

Suddenly  he  broke  out  with  impassioned  eager 
ness. 

"Randal,  you  are  my  own  twin  brother •" 


366        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"I  am  obliged  to  admit  it,"  interpolated  Randal 
flippantly. 

" — my  other  self.  The  tie  that  binds  us  seems 
to  me  closer  than  with  other  brothers.  We  came 
into  the  world  together;  we  have  lived  hand  in  hand 
almost  all  our  lives;  we  even  look  alike." 

"And  make  a  precious  good  job  of  it  too,"  de 
clared  Randal  gaily. 

"We  feel  alike;  we  believe  alike;  we  have  been 
educated  in  the  same  traditions;  we  respect  the  sanc 
tities  of  the  old  fireside  teachings;  we  have  not 
strayed  after  strange  gods." 

Randal  had  taken  his  cigar  from  his  lips  and 
in  his  half  recumbent  position  was  gazing  keenly  at 
his  brother. 

"What  are  you  coming  to,  kid?" 

"Just  this — you  are  not  looking  forward  to  this 
divorce  in  the  hope — the  expectation  of  marrying 
this  woman?  Are  you?  Tell  me." 

Randal's  eyes  flashed.  "What  do  you  take  me 
for?"  he  said  angrily  between  his  set  teeth.  "She 
could  never  again  be  anything  to  me, — not  even  if 
Floyd-Rosney  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  Mississippi 
River." 

"Oh,  how  this  relieves  my  mind,"  cried  Adrian. 

"You  may  set  it  at  rest, — for  I  could  never  again 
love  that  woman." 

"I  know  that  I  have  no  right  to  interfere  or  even 
to  question — but  you  always  appreciate  my  motives, 
Randal.  You  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  world." 

"I  always  thought  so,"  said  Randal,  smoking  hard. 

"I  believe  she  will  expect  it,"  suggested  Adrian, 
still  with  some  anxiety. 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        367 

"She  will  be  grievously  disappointed,  then, — and 
turn  about  is  fair  play." 

"I  want  you  to  guard  against  any  soft  surprise," 
said  Adrian.  "She  seemed  so  sure  of  you.  She 
said  you  were  the  only  friend  she  had  in  the  world. 
She  came  to  the  Adelantado  Hotel  to  find  you — 
that  you  should  lend  her  ten  dollars  for  the  railroad 
fare  to  Ingleside!" 

"The  liberal  Floyd-Rosney !" 

"I  want  you  to  look  out  for  her.  She  is  a  de 
signing  woman.  She  is  heartily  tired  of  her  bar 
gain,  and  with  reason,  and  she  wants  to  pick  up  the 
happiness  she  threw  away  five  years  ago " 

"With  me  and  poverty." 

"She  has  enjoyed  an  artful  combination  of  real 
poverty  and  fictitious  splendor.  I  want  you  to  be 
frank  with  me,  Randal,  and  confide  in  me,  and " 

"Take  that  paw  off  my  arm." 

" — and,"  continued  Adrian,  removing  his  hand, 
"not  make  an  outsider  of  your  own,  only  twin 
brother." 

"Heaven  protect  me  from  two  twin  brothers  like 
unto  this  fellow,"  laughed  Randal.  "Make  your 
self  easy,  Adrian;  when  I  am  finally  led  to  the  altar 
I  shall  countenance  an  innovation  in  the  marriage 
ceremony — the  groom  shall  be  given  away  by  his 
own  only  twin  brother." 

"She  broached  the  matter  herself  when  she  had 
an  opportunity  to  speak  aside  to  me  on  the  Cherokee 
Rose"  said  Adrian,  his  reminiscent  eyes  on  the  fire. 

"What?     Divorce  and  remarriage?" 

"Oh,  no — no.  The  course  she  had  pursued  with 
you." 


368        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

Randal's  eyes  glowed  with  sudden  fire;  his  face 
flushed  deeply  red. 

"That  was  very  unhandsome  of  her,"  he  said 
curtly,  uand  by  your  leave  it  was  very  derogatory 
to  both  you  and  me  for  you  to  consent  to  discuss  it." 

"Why  should  /  decline  to  discuss  it  when  she  in 
troduced  the  subject, — as  if  I  felt  that  you  were  hu 
miliated  in  the  matter  or  had  anything  to  regret?" 

"It  would  seem  that  neither  of  you  were  ham 
pered  with  any  delicacy  of  sentiment  or  sensitive 


ness." 


"She  spoke  to  me  of  a  gift  of  yours  that  she  had 
failed  to  return.  She  wished  me  to  convey  it  to 
you.  But  I  referred  her  to  the  registered  mail  or 
the  express." 

"That  was  polite,  at  all  events." 

"I  told  her  that  the  relations  between  my  brother 
and  myself  were  peculiarly  tender,  and  that  I  would 
not  allow  her  to  come  between  us.  And,  with  that, 
I  bowed  myself  away." 

Randal's  eyes  gloomed  on  the  fire,  with  many  an 
unwelcome  thought  of  an  old  and  shattered  romance. 
But  when  he  spoke,  it  was  of  the  present. 

"Adrian,  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  short  with  you.  Of 
course  I  know  you  could  not  openly  avoid  the  topic 
forced  upon  you  in  that  way.  I  am  sure,  too,  that 
you  did  not  fail  to  take  full  cognizance  of  my  dignity, 
as  well  as  your  own.  I  wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings 
for  a  million  dollars." 

"Well,  you  did  it,"  retorted  Adrian,  "and  nobody 
that  I  know  of  has  offered  you  so  much  as  fifty 
cents.  It  was  a  gratuitous  piece  of  meanness  on  your 
part.  And  you  can  take  that  paw  off  me,"  glancing 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        369 

down  with  affected  repugnance  at  Randal's  caressing 
hand  laid  on  his  sleeve. 

"Well,"  said  Randal,  with  a  long  sigh,  "she  closed 
the  incident  herself.  She  gave  me  the  trinket  in  her 
husband's  presence — and  you  can  imagine  Floyd- 
Rosney  was  all  eyes." 

"She  placed  it  on  the  table  among  the  Ducie  jew 
els  the  previous  night,"  said  Adrian;  "and,  as  I  was 
occupied  in  reading  the  papers,  I  asked  her  point 
edly  to  take  charge  of  it.  And  she  looked  most  aw 
fully  cheap  as  she  repossessed  herself  of  it." 

"Adrian,  you  really  have  a  heart  of  stone  in  this 
connection,"  smiled  Randal,  "and  after  she  had  been 
chiefly  instrumental  in  restoring  to  us  the  Duciehurst 
papers  and  jewels!" 

"What  else  could  she  do — commit  a  felony  and 
keep  them?  I  certainly  entertain  no  fantastic  mag 
nanimity  on  that  score." 

Randal  laughed,  but  the  solicitous  Adrian  fancied 
this  phase  of  the  subject  might  develop  a  menace  to 
the  future,  and  hastened  to  change  the  topic.  "I 
wish  you  would  come  with  me  and  confer  with  our 
lawyers  to-day,  Randal,"  he  suggested.  "It  is  better 
to  have  both  principals  in  interest  present  at  any 
important  consultation.  I  have  an  engagement  with 
them  at  three,"  drawing  out  his  watch  for  a  hasty 
glance. 

"Agreed,"  said  Randal,  springing  up  alertly. 
"Where's  your  clothes-brush? — but  no,  I  suppose 
there  is  not  a  speck  of  the  dust  of  travel  on  me,  for, 
when  I  tipped  the  man  on  the  boat,  he  practically 
frayed  all  the  nap  off  my  clothes  to  show  his  grati 
tude.  I  am  presentable,  eh?" 

He  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  long  mirror, 


370        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

then  broke  forth  whimsically  in  affected  alarm. 
"Adrian,  who  is  this  in  the  mirror,  you  or  I?  I  am 
all  mixed  up.  I  can't  tell  us  apart.  What  are  we 
going  to  do  about  it?"  he  continued,  as  if  in  great 
agitation,  while  Adrian,  with  a  leisurely  smile — for 
he  had  often  taken  part  in  this  gambade,  a  favorite 
bit  of  fooling  since  their  infancy — looked  about  for 
his  hat. 

"Let's  go  downstairs  and  get  somebody  to  pick 
us  out,"  suggested  Randal,  "for,  really,  I  don't  want 
to  be  you,  Adrian.  You  are  too  solemn  and  prig 
gish;  why,  this  must  be  I,  for,  if  it  were  you,  you 
would  have  said  'piggish.'  You  are  so  dearly  fra 
ternal.  Don't  come  near  me,  I  don't  want  to  get 
mixed  up  again.  I  begin  to  know  myself.  This 
is  I." 

But,  notwithstanding  this  threatened  peril  of 
proximity,  they  walked  down  the  street  together, 
arm  in  arm,  to  the  office  of  the  counsel,  followed  by 
many  a  startled  glance  perceiving  the  wonderful  re 
semblance,  and  sometimes  a  passing  stranger  of  an 
uncultured  grade  came  to  a  full  halt  in  surprise  and 
curiosity. 

There  were  many  consultations  with  the  legal 
advisers  in  the  days  that  ensued,  which  Randal 
Ducie  found  very  irksome,  accustomed  as  he  was  to 
an  active  outdoor  life  and  a  less  labyrinthine  species 
of  thought  than  appertains  to  the  purlieus  of  the 
law.  Unexpected  details  continually  developed  con 
cerning  the  interests  involved.  Mrs.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney's  bill  for  divorce  was  filed  in  the  meantime,  and 
because  it  had  a  personal  interest  paramount  to 
its  importance  in  the  Duciehurst  case  it  brought  up 
again  the  matter  of  taking  her  deposition  in  these 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        371 

proceedings  which  had  been  pretermitted  by  reason 
of  affairs  of  greater  magnitude. 

The  decision  was  reached  on  a  day  when  to  Ran 
dal's  relief  he  was  able  to  dub  facetiously  the  coun 
sel  "the  peripatetic  philosophers"  by  reason  of  a 
journey  which  they  thought  it  necessary  to  take  in  the 
company  of  their  clients  and  which  he  found  much 
more  tolerable  than  the  duress  of  their  offices  and 
their  long  indoor  prelections.  The  four  men 
boarded  a  packet  leaving  the  city  at  five  o'clock;  it 
being  deemed  advisable  that  the  lawyers  should 
make  a  personal  examination  of  the  locality  and  the 
hiding  place  of  the  Ducie  papers  and  other  valu 
ables,  before  conferring  with  the  Mississippi  coun 
sel  retained  in  the  case.  The  question  of  summon 
ing  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  was  discussed  as  they  sat  on 
the  hurricane  deck  in  the  approaching  dusk  between 
the  glitter  of  the  evening  sky,  all  of  a  clear  pink  and 
gold,  and  the  lustrous  sheen  of  the  expanse  of  the 
river,  reflecting  a  delicate  amber  and  rose.  The 
search-light  apparatus  was  not  illumined  and  looked 
in  the  uncertain  half  twilight  as  if  it  might  be  some 
defensive  piece  of  artillery  of  the  mortar  type, 
mounted  on  the  hurricane  deck.  The  great  smoke 
stacks,  towering  high  into  the  air,  had  already  swing 
ing  between  them  the  green  and  red  chimney  lamps, 
required  by  law,  but  as  yet  day  reigned  and  all  the 
brilliancy  of  the  evening  bespoke  a  protest  against 
the  coming  night. 

Adrian  Ducie  doubted  the  availability  of  sum 
moning  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  in  their  interest.  The 
proof  could  inferentially  be  made  without  her,  by 
those  who  saw  her  deliver  the  box  and  witnessed 
its  opening  and  contents.  Besides,  here  were  the 


372        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

papers  to  speak  for  themselves.  But  Randal  Ducie 
urged  the  deposition.  It  would  seem  conscious  not  to 
call  her.  Why  should  she  not  give  her  testimony. 
It  was  disrespectful  to  imply  that  Mrs.  Floyd-Ros- 
ney  would  be  reluctant  to  do  this. 

"Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  is  a  mighty  touchy  man,"  sug 
gested  the  junior  counsel.  This  practitioner  was 
about  forty  years  of  age,  thin,  wiry,  eager,  even 
fidgetty.  He  had  a  trick  of  passing  his  hand  rapidly 
over  his  prematurely  bald  head,  of  playing  with  his 
fob  chain,  of  twisting  a  pencil,  or  his  gloves,  or  his 
eyeglasses — these  last  also,  perhaps,  a  prematurely 
acquired  treasure.  Apparently  he  had  burned  a 
great  deal  of  midnight  oil  to  good  purpose,  for  he 
was  admittedly  an  exceedingly  able  lawyer,  destined 
to  rise  very  high  in  his  profession. 

His  associate  in  the  case  was  in  striking  contrast, 
in  many  respects,  to  Mr.  Guinnell.  He  was  a  portly 
man,  with  a  big  head,  and  a  big  frame,  and  a  big 
brain.  It  was  his  foible, — one  of  them,  perhaps, — 
in  moments  of  deep  thought  to  close  his  eyes ;  it  may 
have  been  in  order  to  commune  the  more  closely 
and  clearly  with  the  immanent  legal  entity  within; 
it  may  have  been  more  definitely  to  concentrate  his 
ideas;  it  may  have  been  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  Mr. 
Guinnell's  swiftly  revolving  pencil  or  eyeglasses; 
whatever  his  reason,  the  habit  had  a  most  unnerving 
effect  on  clients  in  consultation,  suggesting  the  idea 
that  their  affairs — always  of  vital  importance  to  the 
parties  in  interest — were  of  slight  consequence  to 
their  adviser  and  of  soporific  effect.  Both  gentle 
men  were  serious-minded,  and,  which  is  more  rare 
in  their  profession,  abysmally  devoid  of  a  sense  of 
humor, 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        37B 

"The  filing  of  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  bill  for  di 
vorce  and  alimony  complicates  the  situation/'  con 
tinued  Mr.  Guinnell,  "although  I  have  thought  since 
the  Union  Station  incident,"  he  hesitated  slightly, 
glancing  toward  Randal, — "you  will  excuse  me  for 
mentioning  it  in  professional  confidence." 

"Certainly;  I  often  mention  it  myself  as  a  mere 
layman,"  said  Randal,  debonairly. 

"I  have  thought  that  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  will  make 
a  stiff  fight  on  the  hard  letter  of  the  law, — a  l'out~ 
ranee,  in  fact, — with  no  contemplation  of  such  con 
cessions  as  would  otherwise  present  themselves  to 
litigants,  looking  to  compromise,  settlement  of  an 
tagonistic  interest  by  equitable  adjustment.  In  the 
present  development  of  his  domestic  affairs  he  will 
find  it  quite  intolerable  for  his  wife  to  give  testi 
mony  in  the  interest  of  Mr.  Randal  Ducie  and  his 
brother.  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  will  wince  from  it." 

"It  is  a  good  thing  that  something  can  make  him 
wince,"  declared  Randal  hardily.  "A  stout  cow 
hide  is  evidently  what  he  needs." 

"I  hope,  Mr.  Ducie,"  said  Mr.  Harvey,  the  senior 
counsel  in  alarm  and  grave  rebuke,  "that  you  will 
not  take  that  tone  in  testifying.  All  the  circum 
stances  in  the  case  render  the  situation  unusual 
and  perilous,  and  we  want  to  do  and  say  nothing 
that  will  place  either  you  or  your  brother  in  per 
sonal  danger  from  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney." 

"The  only  cause  for  wonder  is  that  your  brother 
was  not  shot  down  at  Union  Station,  being  mistaken 
for  you,"  Mr.  Guinnell  added  the  weight  of  his 
opinion  to  his  partner's  remonstrance.  "If  Floyd- 
Rosney  had  chanced  to  wear  a  revolver  Adrian 
Ducie  would  not  be  here  to-day  to  tell  the  tale." 


574        THE    STORY    OP   BUCIEHURST 

"Count  on  me;  I  am  yours  to  command,"  declared 
Randal,  lightly.  "I  am  a  very  lamb,  when  neces 
sary,  and  you  may  lead  me  through  the  case  with 
a  blue  ribbon  and  a  ring  in  my  nose.  I'll  eat  out  of 
any  man's  hand!" 

The  ponderous  senior  counsel  looked  at  him 
soberly.  The  junior  twirled  and  twirled  his  fob- 
chain. 

"We  wish  to  conduct  this  case  to  the  best  advan 
tage,"  said  Mr.  Harvey,  "and  leave  no  stone  un 
turned  that  can  contribute  to  success.  But  we  wish 
to  be  conservative — we  must  keep  that  intention  be 
fore  us,  to  be  conservative,  and  give  Floyd-Rosney 
no  possible  opportunity  for  outbreak  at  our  expense, 
either  in  regard  to  the  interests  of  the  case  or  the 
personal  safety  of  our  clients." 

"I  will  order  my  walk  and  conversation  as  if  on 
eggs,"  declared  Randal,  with  a  wary  look. 

"I  do  not  apprehend  any  unseemly  measures  or 
conduct  on  the  part  of  the  opposing  counsel,"  con 
tinued  Mr.  Harvey.  "They  are  gentlemen  of  high 
standing.  But  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney  has  a  most  unruly 
and  unreasoning  temper  and  he  has  placed  himself 
at  a  deplorable  public  disadvantage  in  this  matter, 
which,  be  sure,  he  does  not  ascribe  to  himself.  We 
will  go  slowly  and  safely — coming  necessarily  into 
contention  with  him.  But  we  shall  take  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney's  deposition  by  all  means." 

And  thus  the  matter  was  settled. 

On  the  third  day  the  boat  made  the  Duciehurst 
landing,  and  some  hours  were  spent  in  exploring  the 
ruins  of  the  mansion.  Later  the  party  separated, 
the  lawyers  repairing  to  the  inland  town  of  Caxton 
for  a  conference  with  the  local  legal  firm  who  would 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        375 

prosecute  the  interests  of  the  case  in  Mississippi, 
and  the  two  Ducies  making  a  prearranged  excursion 
to  a  plantation  which  Randal  had  leased  at  some 
distance  higher  up  the  river.  As  the  residence  on 
this  plantation  was  comfortable  and  in  good  repair 
he  had  quitted  his  quarters  at  the  hotel  in  Caxton 
and  had  taken  up  his  abode  here.  It  had  been  a 
wrench  to  him  to  relinquish  the  operations  on  the 
Ducie  estate;  but  he  was  advised  that  his  claim  to 
rightful  possession  might  be  jeopardized  by  con 
senting  to  hold  under  Floyd-Rosney,  which  course, 
indeed,  he  had  never  contemplated.  As  the  two, 
mounted  on  the  staid  farm  horses,  rode  through 
the  fields  and  speculated  on  their  possibilities,  Ran 
dal  would  often  pause  in  the  turn-rows — the  cotton 
of  last  year  a  withered  stubble — in  systematic  lines, 
with  here  and  there  a  floculent  "dog-tail,"  as  the 
latest  wisp  of  the  staple  is  called,  flaunting  in  the 
chill  spring  breeze,  and  would  descant  on  the  su 
perior  values  of  the  Duciehurst  lands  compared 
to  these,  illustrating  sometimes  by  the  fresh  fur 
rows  near  at  hand,  showing  the  humus  of  the  soil, 
for  the  plows  were  already  running.  Now  and 
again  he  turned  his  eager,  hopeful  eyes  on  his 
brother  as  he  declared,  "This  time  next  year,  old 
man,  I  shall  have  the  force  busy  getting  ready  to 
bed  up  land  for  cotton  at  Duciehurst."  Or  "When 
the  estates  of  our  fathers  are  restored  to  us  I  shall 
live  in  formality  at  our  ancestral  mansion,  and  if 
you  dare  go  back  to  France  I  shall  revenge  myself 
by  marrying  somebody." 

"Anybody  in  view?" 

"Apprehensive,  again?  Well,  to  set  your  mind 
at  rest,  I  was  thinking,  pictorially  merely,  how  state- 


376        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

ly  Hilda  Dean  looked  walking  down  the  grand  stair 
case  with  her  head  up.  How  beautifully  it  is  poised 
on  her  shoulders." 

"She  is  truly  beautiful,"  Adrian  said  heartily, 
"and  during  all  that  trip  down  the  river  I  was  im 
pressed  with  her  lovely  character,  and  her  sterling 
qualities  of  mind  and  heart.  Her  beauty,  great  as 
it  is,  really  is  belittled  by  the  graces  of  her  nature. 
Pray  Heaven  your  visions  of  Hildegarde  as  your 
chatelaine  at  Duciehurst  may  materialize." 

"One  more  year, — one  more  year  of  this  toilsome 
probation,  and  then,"  Randal's  face  was  illumined 
as  if  the  word  radiated  light,  "Duciehurst!" 

Adrian,  looking  over  the  river  which  was  now 
well  in  view  from  the  fields,  began  to  speculate  on 
the  approach  of  a  skiff  heading  down  stream,  and 
running  in  to  the  bank.  "I  wonder  if  that  is  the 
boat  that  your  manager  was  to  send  for  me  for  my 
trip  to  Berridge's?" 

For,  although  the  terror  of  the  fierce  pursuit  of 
the  riverside  harpies  inaugurated  by  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton  had  swept  the  others  in  flight  from  the 
country,  not  a  foothold  of  suspicion  had  been  found 
against  Berridge  and  his  son.  It  was  known  that 
Captain  Treherne  had  spent  the  night  at  their  am 
phibian  home,  and  had  gone  thence  to  his  conference 
with  Colonel  Kenwynton  on  the  sand-bar;  so  much 
he  himself  had  stated,  but  he  declared  positively 
that  neither  of  the  Berridges  was  with  the  mis 
creants  who  had  waylaid  him  on  his  return  and  con 
veyed  him  bound  to  Duciehurst.  It  was  beyond  his 
knowledge,  indeed,  that  this  choice  twain  had  later 
joined  his  captors  at  the  mansion.  Their  strength 
of  nerve,  however,  failed  them  when  they  were  noti- 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        377 

Tied  that  the  Ducie  counsel  desired  an  interview  with 
them  on  this  visit  to  the  vicinity  to  ascertain  if  their 
testimony  would  be  at  all  pertinent  in  the  matters 
preliminary  to  the  discovery  of  the  documents. 
Even  their  non-appearance  this  afternoon  did  not 
excite  unfavorable  comment.  It  was  supposed  that 
in  the  depths  of  their  illiteracy  they  had  not  under 
stood  the  nature  of  the  communication,  if  indeed 
they  had  received  it,  and  Adrian  Ducie  promised  the 
counsel  to  see  old  Berridge  or  his  son  personally 
and  explain  the  matter  in  order  to  have  them  present 
in  Caxton  the  following  day  when  the  lawyers  should 
be  in  conference. 

"Oh,  I  will  go  instead,"  cried  Randal;  "I  really 
ought  not  to  let  you  go  on  this  errand,  for,"  with  a 
quizzical  smile,  "you  are  'company,'  you  know." 

"Not  very  formal  'company.'  You  ought  to  see 
to  the  placing  of  that  new  boiler  in  the  gin-house, — 
and  I  have  nothing  to  do.  Yes,"  continued  Adrian, 
still  regarding  the  approach  of  the  skiff,  "that  is 
your  man  Job,  and  he  can  take  this  horse  back  to  the 
stable." 

He  dismounted  hastily  and  throwing  the  reins  to 
Randal,  he  ran  lightly  up  the  slope  of  the  levee.  He 
paused  on  the  summit  to  wave  his  hand  and  call  out 
cheerily,  "Ta,  ta — see  you  later,"  and  then  he  threw 
himself  in  the  skiff,  which  was  dancing  on  the  floods 
close  below,  the  boatman  holding  it  by  the  painter 
as  he  stood  on  the  exterior  slope  of  the  embank 
ment. 

The  river  was  at  flood  height  and  running  with 
tremendous  force.  But  for  the  aid  of  the  current 
Adrian's  strength  plying  the  oars  would  have  made 
scant  speed.  It  was  only  a  short  time  before  he 


378        THE    STORY    OP   DUCIEHURST 

sighted  the  little  riverside  shanty  which  no  longer 
showed  its  stilts,  but  sat  on  the  water  as  flush  with 
the  surface  as  a  swimming  duck.  Adrian  was  able 
from  his  seat  between  the  rowlocks  to  knock  on  the 
closed  door  without  rising.  There  was  no  response 
for  a  few  minutes,  although  the  building  was  obvi 
ously  inhabited,  the  sluggish  smoke  coiling  up  from 
the  stove-pipe  into  this  dull  day  of  late  winter  or 
early  spring,  whichever  season  might  be  credited 
with  its  surly  disaffection.  A  child's  voice  within 
suddenly  babbled  forth,  and  but  for  this  Adrian 
fancied  a  feint  of  absence  might  have  been  at 
tempted.  With  a  slight  motion  of  the  oars  he  kept 
the  skiff  in  place  at  the  entrance,  and  at  length  the 
door  slowly  opened  and  the  frowsy,  copper-tinted 
hair  and  freckled  face  of  Jessy  Jane  was  thrust 
forth. 

She  was  one  of  that  type  of  woman  to  whom 
without  any  approach  to  moral  delinquency  a  hand 
some  man  is  always  an  object  of  supreme  twittering 
interest,  however  remote  of  station  and  indifferent 
of  temperament;  however  crusty  or  contemptuous. 
That  he  should  obviously  concern  himself  in  no  wise 
with  her  existence  did  not  in  any  degree  minimize 
the  intensity  of  her  personal  absorption  in  him. 
Her  face,  sullen  and  lowering,  took  on  a  bland  and 
mollifying  expression,  and  with  a  fancied  recogni 
tion  of  the  rower  she  broke  forth  with  a  high, 
ecstatic  chirp: 

"Why,  Mr.  Ran,  I  never  knowed  'twas  you 
hyar!"  though  she  had  never  spoken  to  Randal 
Ducie,  and  knew  him  only  by  sight. 

"This  is  not  Mr.  Randal  Ducie,  but  his  brother," 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        379 

said  Adrian,  and  as  she  stared  silently  at  him,  noting 
the  wonderful  resemblance,  he  continued: 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Joshua  Berridge,"  he  con 
sulted  a  paper  in  his  hand.  "He  lives  here,  doesn't 
he?" 

"My  dad-in-law,"  she  explained,  suavely;  "but  he 
ain't  at  home  just  now,  though" — with  a  facetious 
smile,  "  'twon't  be  long  'fore  he  comes — most  supper 
time,  ye  know.  Won't  ye  kem  in  an'  wait?" 

Ducie  declined  this  invitation  and  sat  meditatively 
eyeing  the  waste  of  waters,  for  the  river  was  now 
at  its  full  scope,  barring  inundation,  and  stretched 
in  great  majesty  to  a  bank  scarcely  visible  on  the 
farther  shore. 

"I  ain't  sure,  but  what  ye  mought  find  him  over 
on  the  old  Che'okee  Rose,"  she  said,  speculatively, 
for  Ducie  was  very  comely  and  she  had  a  special 
impulse  to  be  polite  to  so  worthy  an  object  of 
courtesy. 

"Is  the  old  steamboat  there  yet?"  he  asked,  look 
ing  over  his  shoulder  at  the  murky  swirls  of  the 
swift  current.  There  was  now  no  sign  of  the  sand 
bar  on  which  the  ill-fated  craft  had  stranded.  The 
foaming  waves  raced  past  and  submerged  its  whole 
extent.  None  might  know  where  it  lay.  A  deep- 
water  craft,  drawing  many  feet,  might  have  un 
wittingly  plied  above  its  expanse.  Only  a  fraction 
of  the  superstructure  of  the  steamboat — the  pilot 
house  and  texas,  and  the  upper  part  of  the  cabin, 
showed  above  the  waste  of  waters  to  distinguish  the 
spot  where  the  steamer  had  run  aground  and  the 
pitiless  storm  had  flayed  out  all  its  future  utility. 

"The  wreckers  have  been  down  time  and  again," 
she  went  on  with  a  note  of  apology.  "They  tuk  off 


380        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

all  the  vallybles  before  the  water  riz, — the  kyar- 
pets,  an'  funnicher,  an'  mirrors,  an'  sech — even  the 
big  chimbleys.  The  water  got  the  rest,  but  wunst 
in  a  while  ef  us  pore  folks  wants  somethin'  that  be 
lef  fur  lost — like  some  henges,  or  somthin'  we  jest 
tries  to  supply  ourse'fs  ez  bes'  we  kin." 

Adrian  was  still  silently  looking  at  the  wreck 
that  he  had  such  cause  to  remember,  with  all  that 
had  since  come  and  gone. 

"Well,  I  reckon  Dad  is  over  there  now,  hunting 
fur  them  henges,"  said  the  woman,  speculatively. 
"Leastwise,"  holding  her  palm  above  her  eyes, 
"  'pears  like  I  kin  see  a  boat  on  the  tother  side, 
a-bobbin  at  the  e-end  of  a  painter!" 

Adrian  moved  with  a  sudden  resolution.  The 
oars  smote  the  water,  and  with  curt  and  formal 
thanks  for  the  information,  he  began  to  row  strongly 
across  the  current  that  despite  his  best  endeavors 
carried  him  continually  down  and  down  the  river, 
and  required  him  to  shape  his  course  diagonally 
athwart  the  stream  to  counteract  its  impetus. 

The  woman  stood  for  a  time  aimlessly  watching 
him,  as  the  rhythmic  oars  plied,  and  the  skiff, 
shadowless  this  dull  day,  kept  on  its  way.  At  last 
she  turned  within  and  shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  effect  on  Floyd-Rosney  of  his  wife's  legal 
proceedings  was  deep  and  radical.  His  counsel  con 
stantly  noted  in  him  a  sort  of  stunned  surprise,  as 
if  contemplating  some  fantastic  revulsion  of  the 
natural  course  of  events.  He  had  fashioned  this 
result  as  definitely  as  if  he  had  planned  its  every  de 
tail,  yet  he  regarded  it  with  an  affronted  amazement 
that  he  should  be  called  upon  to  experience  events  so 
untoward.  He  had  a  disposition  to  belittle  the  ef 
ficiency  of  the  demonstration.  He  perceived  with 
a  snort  of  rage  and  contempt  the  seriousness  with 
which  his  counsel  regarded  it  and  declared  violently 
that  she  could  never  get  a  decree. 

"You  mean  to  defend  the  suit,  then?"  Mr.  Stacey 
asked,  very  cool,  and  pallid,  and  dispassionate. 

"What  else?"  thundered  Floyd-Rosney,  the  veins 
in  his  forehead  blue  and  swollen,  his  face  scarlet,  his 
hands  quivering. 

"I  can't  see  upon  what  grounds,  in  view  of  the 
terms  of  retraxit." 

"You  dictated  the  terms  of  that  precious  perform 
ance,"  declared  Floyd-Rosney,  with  vindictive  pleas 
ure  in  shifting  the  blame. 

But  Mr.  Stacey  easily  eluded  the  burden. 

"Under  your  specific  instructions  as  to  the  facts 
to  which  you  made  affidavit,"  he  said,  coldly. 

It  was  perhaps  evidence  how  Floyd-Rosney  was 
381 


382        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

beginning  to  acquire  a  modicum  of  prudence  under 
the  fierce  tuition  of  circumstance  that  he  avoided 
a  breach  with  his  lawyers.  He  heartily  cursed  them 
in  his  heart,  recollecting  the  many  large  fees  they 
had  received  at  his  hands,  minimizing  altogether  the 
arduous  work  and  professional  learning  that  had 
earned  them.  He  broke  off  the  consultation,  which 
he  postponed  to  a  future  day,  and  left  them  with  a 
stunned  realization  that  these  men,  whose  capacity 
and  experience  he  had  so  often  tested,  were  of 
opinion  that  he  had  no  defense  against  the  preposter 
ous  suit  of  his  wife,  that  she  would  receive  her 
decree  and  be  awarded  the  custody  of  the  child  and 
ample  alimony  which  it  would  be  adjudged  he  should 
pay. 

He  set  his  teeth,  gritting  them  hard  when  he  re 
membered  how  these  lawyers  had  sought  to  induce 
him  to  defer  filing  his  bill,  to  mitigate  his  allega 
tions,  to  investigate  the  circumstances  more  closely. 
Their  judgment  had  been  justified  in  every  particular, 
and  though  showing  no  triumph — Mr.  Stacey  was 
too  completely  a  legal  machine  for  such  manifesta 
tion — he  gave  attestation  of  his  human  composition 
by  the  cold  distaste,  which  he  could  not  disguise,  for 
the  subsequent  developments. 

"Damned  if  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be  concerned 
with  me"  Floyd-Rosney  said  to  himself,  fairly  stag 
gered  by  the  preposterous  climax  of  the  situation. 

He  began  to  have  a  great  desire  to  get  out  of 
the  country,  to  be  quit  of  all  the  sights  and  associa 
tions  of  his  recent  life,  but  he  had  pressed  the  prep 
arations  for  the  Duciehurst  suit,  and  his  absence  now 
as  the  date  of  the  trial  approached  would  have  the 
aspect  of  a  pusillanimous  retreat,  specially  obnox- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST       383 

ious  to  him  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  Ducies  were 
his  opponents.  The  overthrow  of  his  plans  and  ex 
pectations  of  his  wife's  return  to  him  and  the  re 
habilitation  of  their  life  together  was  like  the  dem 
onstration  of  some  great  earthquake  or  cataclysmal 
disaster;  it  had  destroyed  all  the  symmetry  and  pur 
pose  of  his  life;  his  outlook  was  as  upon  a  blank 
desert  of  despair,  an  "abomination  of  desolation." 
That  human  heart  of  his,  despite  its  overlay  of 
selfish  aims  and  turbulent  pride,  had  depths  seldom 
stirred  of  genuine  feeling;  he  yearned  for  sympathy; 
he  poignantly  lacked  the  touch  of  his  absent  child's 
hand;  the  adoring  look  in  the  limpid  infantile  eyes; 
he  felt  at  every  turn  the  loss  of  the  incense  of  adula 
tion  that  his  wife  had  been  wont  to  burn  before  him. 
It  had  made  sweet  the  atmosphere  of  his  life,  and 
until  it  ceased  he  had  never  known  how  dependent 
upon  it  his  very  respiration  had  grown  to  be — it  was 
as  the  breath  of  his  life.  While  he  sat  in  his  solitary 
library,  brooding  and  silent,  reviewing  in  his  enforced 
leisure  and  loneliness  the  successive  steps  by  which 
the  destruction  of  his  domestic  happiness  had  been 
compassed,  his  brow  'darkened  and  grew  fierce  as 
he  fixed  the  date  of  its  inception  to  the  meeting  with 
Adrian  Ducie  on  the  Cherokee  Rose,  and  the  dis 
covery  that  his  wife  could  subtly  distinguish  be 
tween  these  facsimile  faces  of  the  two  brothers 
the  lineaments  of  her  former  lover.  Even  now  his 
logic  strove  to  reassert  itself.  Of  course,  the  man's 
face  was  intimately  familiar  to  her;  there  must  be 
tricks  of  expression,  the  lift  of  an  eyebrow,  the  curl 
of  a  lip,  methods  of  enunciation  peculiar  to  one  and 
alien  to  the  other,  distinctive  enough  to  a  keen  and 
habituated  observer.  But,  alack!  this  was  not  all, 


384        THE    STORY    OP    DUCIEHURST 

offensive  as  were  its  suggestions  to  his  pride  of 
monopoly.  He  said  to  himself  that  from  the  mo 
ment  of  the  presentation  of  this  vivid  reminder  of 
her  old  lover's  face  was  inaugurated  the  recurrence 
of  the  Ducie  influence  in  her  life.  Here  began  that 
strange,  covert  revolt  against  him  and  all  his  theories 
and  plans,  which  had  grown  inch  by  inch  till  it  pos 
sessed  her.  She  had  never  been  the  same,  and  he — 
fool  that  he  was — through  his  magnanimity  in  with 
drawing  the  allegations  of  his  bill,  had  furnished 
her  with  the  certainty  of  gaining  a  decree  in  her 
counter  suit  for  divorce,  of  securing  an  ample  for 
tune  in  the  belittling  name  of  alimony,  and  the  op 
portunity  of  marrying  and  endowing  with  this 
wealth,  derived  from  him,  the  penniless  Randal 
Ducie,  whose  baleful  influence  had  destroyed  for 
him  all  that  made  life  worth  living. 

Floyd-Rosney  had  never  been  an  intemperate 
man,  but  in  this  grim  seclusion  he  began  to  drink 
heavily.  He  had  piqued  himself  upon  his  delicate 
taste,  his  acumen  as  a  judge  of  fine  wines,  but  the 
Chambertin  and  Chateau  Yquem  remained  un 
touched  during  his  hasty  dinners,  while  the  brandy 
decanter  had  taken  up  a  permanent  position  on  the 
library  table,  and  he  had  ordered  up  from  the  cellar 
an  old  and  rich  whisky  that  had  been  laid  down  by 
his  father  before  he  was  born,  and  that  he  had,  so 
far  as  the  butler  knew,  never  yet  tasted. 

It  was  difficult  for  the  lurking  magnate,  in  his 
sullen  seclusion,  to  face  the  eyes  of  his  own  domestic 
staff;  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  confront  the 
questioning,  speculative  gaze  of  the  streets,  the  club, 
the  driving  park.  Even  such  rencontres  as  chanced 
when  he  went  to  consult  his  counsel,  whom,  but  for 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

very  shame  he  would  have  summoned  to  him,  he 
found  an  ordeal.  He  had  grown  poignantly  sensi 
tive  and  keenly  perceptive  as  well,  and  was  dis 
criminating  in  minute  points  of  facial  expression  and 
gradations  of  manner.  He  could  differentiate  em 
barrassment,  commiseration, — and  how  pity  stung 
him! — reprobation,  and  oftenest  of  all,  a  sort  of 
covert  relish,  an  elation,  that  with  any  personal  re 
lation  would  have  meant  triumph.  "They  are  nearly 
as  well  pleased  as  if  I  were  broken,"  he  would  say 
cynically  to  himself.  But  there  was  no  breach  of 
courtesy,  no  abatement  of  the  deep  respect  usually 
tendered  to  a  magnate  and  millionaire.  He  was 
keenly  alive  to  detect  the  insignia  of  a  diminution  of 
consideration,  but  his  little  world  salaamed  as  hereto 
fore,  for  he  was  by  no  means  broken,  not  even  if  he 
should  have  to  pay  heavy  alimony,  and  lose  Ducie- 
hurst  into  the  bargain.  The  experience  of  these  en 
counters,  however,  weighed  heavily  on  his  nerves, 
now  all  a-quiver  and  jangling  with  the  effects  of  his 
deep  potations. 

His  home  was  odious  to  him;  his  covert  specula 
tions  as  to  the  deductions  of  the  servants,  whom 
ordinarily  he  would  have  disregarded  as  mere 
worms  of  the  earth,  afflicted  him.  He  was  keenly 
conscious  of  his  humiliated  position  in  their  eyes, 
cognizant  as  he  knew  them  to  be  of  his  expectation 
of  his  wife's  return,  and  the  elaborate  preparations 
he  had  made  and  personally  supervised  for  her  re 
ception.  He  found  a  greater  degree  of  privacy  and 
comfort  on  his  yacht,  which  he  ordered  up  from 
New  Orleans,  where  she  had  been  lying  for  a 
month  past,  refitted  and  revictualed,  awaiting  his 
summons.  He  steamed  down  the  river  to  the  Gulf 


386        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

on  one  occasion,  but  finding  himself  out  of  touch 
with  his  counsel  in  the  Duciehurst  case,  and  realizing 
that  some  final  decision  must  be  reached  as  to  his 
course  in  the  divorce  suit,  he  confined  his  wanderings 
to  idly  cruising  up  and  down  the  river,  stopping  at 
prearranged  points  for  mail  or  telegrams. 

In  this  resource  he  experienced  a  surcease  of  the 
harassments  that  infested  his  life  on  shore.  His 
skipper  knew  little  and  cared  less  of  land-lubber  in 
terests — as  maritime  an  animal  as  a  crab.  He  had, 
indeed,  with  a  brightening  eye  and  a  ready  courtesy, 
asked,  when  Floyd-Rosney  came  over  the  side  of  the 
Aglaia,  if  the  madam  was  not  going  to  favor  the 
ship's  company  with  her  presence.  Being  answered 
shortly  in  the  negative  he  heartily  protested  his  re 
gret. 

"The  best  sailor  she  is  of  any  lady  I  ever  saw," 
he  declared,  and  added  that  if  they  were  to  do 
some  deep-sea  stunts  they  need  not  consult  the 
barometer  for  weather  signs.  She  cared  no  more 
for  weather  than  a  stormy  petrel.  He  always 
looked  on  the  madam's  presence  as  a  good  omen,  he 
said;  he  had  a  bit  of  the  blarney  and  a  bit  of  poesy 
in  his  composition,  his  ancestry  hailing  from  the 
Emerald  Isle. 

"She  has  brought  no  good  luck  to  her  husband," 
Floyd-Rosney  reflected,  grimly. 

It  was  grateful  to  him,  however,  to  perceive  that 
the  man  knew  naught  of  his  recent  discomfitures  and 
humiliation;  of  very  meager  consequence  such  an 
opinion  would  have  been  ordinarily,  but  the  evident 
ignorance  of  the  skipper  enabled  him  to  hold  his 
head  higher.  The  skipper  read  nothing  in  the  news 
papers  but  the  shipping  news,  and  but  for  the  change 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        387 

in  Floyd-Rosney's  bibulous  habit  he  might  never 
have  been  the  wiser. 

"He's  drinking  like  a  fish,"  he  said  in  surprise  to 
the  second  officer.  "That's  new  with  him." 

"Seems  to  me,"  responded  the  subordinate,  medi 
tatively,  "I  heard  something  when  we  was  in  port 
in  Boloxi  about  him  and  the  madam  havin'  had  some 
sort  o'  row." 

"I  hate  to  trust  him  with  the  brand  new  dinky 
skiff,"  said  the  skipper.  "He  ain't  a  practiced  hand; 
I  seen  him  run  her  nose  up  on  a  drift  log  lying  on  the 
levee  with  a  shock  that  might  have  started  every 
seam  in  her." 

But  the  yacht,  with  all  that  appertained  to  it,  was 
Floyd-Rosney's  property,  and  the  skipper  could  only 
enjoy  his  fears  for  the  proper  care  of  its  ap 
purtenances. 

For  Floyd-Rosney  had  contracted  the  habit  of 
scouting  about  in  the  skiff,  while  the  yacht  swung 
at  anchor,  awaiting  his  pleasure.  The  solitude  was 
soothing  to  his  exacerbated  nerves.  He  could,  in 
deed,  be  alone,  for  he  took  the  oars  himself,  and  as 
he  was  a  strong,  athletic  man  the  exercise  was  doubt 
less  beneficial  and  tonic.  The  passing  of  the  con 
gestion  of  commerce  from  the  great  river  to  the 
railroads  had  brought  the  stream  to  an  almost  primi 
tive  loneliness.  Thus  he  would  often  row  for  hours, 
seeing  not  a  human  being,  not  the  smoke  of  a  river 
side  habitation,  not  a  craft  of  any  of  the  multifarious 
species  once  wont  to  ply  the  waters  of  this  great  in 
land  sea.  The  descriptive  epithet  was  merited  by 
its  aspect  at  this  stage  of  the  water.  Bank-full,  it 
stretched  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  Only  per 
sons  familiar  with  the  riparian  contours  could  de- 


388        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

tect  in  a  ruffled  line  on  the  horizon  the  presence  of 
a  growth  of  cottonwood  on  the  swampy  Arkansas 
shore. 

One  of  these  days,  when  he  was  thus  loitering 
about,  the  sky  was  dull  and  clouded;  the  river  was 
dark,  and  reflected  its  mood.  The  tender  green 
of  spring  was  keen  almost  with  the  effect  of  glitter 
on  the  bank,  and  he  noted  how  high  the  water  stood 
against  the  levees  of  plantations,  here  and  there, 
menacing  overflow.  When  a  packet  chanced  to  pass 
he  bent  low  to  his  oars,  avoiding  possible  recognition 
from  any  passenger  on  the  guards  or  officer  on  deck, 
but  he  uncharacteristically  exchanged  greetings  with 
a  shanty  boat,  now  and  again  propelled  down  the 
stream  with  big  sweeps;  none  of  the  humble  am 
phibians  of  the  cabins  had  ever  heard,  he  was  sure, 
of  the  great  Floyd-Rosney.  Sometimes  he  called 
out  a  question,  courteously  answered,  or  with  a  re 
sponse  of  chaff,  roughly  gay.  Once,  being  doubtful 
of  the  locality,  he  paused  on  his  oars  to  ask  informa 
tion  of  an  ancient  darkey,  who  was  paddling  in  a 
dug-out  along  the  margin  of  the  river. 

uYou  are  going  to  have  an  overflow  hereabout," 
added  Floyd-Rosney. 

The  old  darkey,  nothing  loath,  joined  in  the  dis 
mal  foreboding,  keeping  his  craft  stationary  while 
he  lent  himself  to  the  joys  of  conversation  with  so 
aristocratic  a  gentleman. 

"Dat's  so,  Boss;  we'se  gwine  under,  shore,  ef  de 
ribber  don't  quit  dis  foolishness." 

uWhose  plantation  is  that  beyond  the  point, 
where  the  water  is  standing  against  the  levee?" 

"Dat,  sah,  is  de  Mountjoy  place,  but  hit's  leased 
dis  year  ter  Mr.  Ran  Ducie.  I  reckon  mebbe  you  is 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        389 

'quainted  wid  him.  Mighty  fine  man,  Mr.  Ran  is, 
an'  nobody  so  well  liked  in  the  neighborhood." 

Without  another  word  Floyd-Rosney  bent  to  his 
oars.  Was  there  no  escape  from  this  ill-omened 
association  of  ideas? 

The  old  darkey,  checked  in  the  exploitation  of  his 
old-time  manners  and  balked  in  the  opportunity  of 
polite  conversation,  gazed  in  amazed  discomfiture 
after  Floyd-Rosney's  skiff,  as  it  sped  swiftly  down 
the  river,  then  resumed  his  progress,  gruff  and  low 
ering,  ejaculating  in  affront: 

"White  folks  is  cur'ous,  shore ;  ain't  got  no  man 
ners,  nor  no  raisin',  nor  no  p'liteness,  nohow." 

Floyd-Rosney's  equipoise  had  been  greatly  shaken 
by  the  strain  upon  his  nerves  and  mental  forces,  this 
depletion  of  his  powers  of  resistance  supplemented 
by  constant  and  inordinate  drinking,  contrary  to 
his  usual  custom.  Thus  he  had  become  susceptible 
to  even  the  slightest  strain  on  his  self-control.  He 
noticed  that  with  the  renewal  of  the  mental  tur 
moils  that  he  had  sought  to  elude — conjured  up  by 
the  chance  mention  of  the  man's  name  that  meant 
so  much  to  him  in  many  ways — his  stroke  grew  er 
ratic  and  uncertain;  once  one  of  the  oars  was  almost 
wrenched  from  his  grasp  by  a  swirl  of  the  current. 
He  was  well  in  mid-stream,  in  deep  water,  and  he 
realized  that  should  he  lose  his  capacity  to  handle 
the  little  craft  he  would  be  in  immediate  danger  of 
capsizing  and  drowning,  for  his  strength  in  swim 
ming  could  never  enable  him  to  breast  that  tumultu 
ous  tide  at  flood  height.  The  yacht  was  out  of 
sight,  lying  at  anchor  in  the  bight  of  a  bend,  that 
cut  him  off  from  all  chance  of  being  observed  and 
rescued  by  the  skipper.  He  summoned  his  presence 


390       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

of  mind  and  let  the  boat  drift  for  a  few  moments 
while  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  brandy  flask,  and 
drank  deeply  from  its  undiluted  contents.  The 
potent  elixir  rallied  his  forces — steadied  his  nerves. 
With  its  artificial  stimulus  his  hand  was  once  more 
firm,  his  eye  bright  and  sure.  But  its  stimulus  was 
not  lasting,  as  he  knew,  and  fearing  an  incapacity 
to  handle  the  boat  in  this  swirling  waste  of  waters 
he  directed  his  course  toward  an  island,  as  it  seemed, 
thinking  that  thence  he  would  signal  the  Aglaia  and 
wait  for  her  to  steam  up  and  take  him  off.  There 
he  would  be  in  full  view  from  the  yacht. 

As  he  neared  his  destination  he  perceived — as  he 
had  not  hitherto,  because  of  the  potency  of  the 
brandy — that  the  island  of  his  beclouded  mirage 
was  the  wreck  of  the  Cherokee  Rose,  still  aground 
on  the  sand-bar,  although  waters  swirled  around 
her,  and  fish  swam  through  her  cabin  doors  and 
the  slime  and  ooze  of  the  river  had  befouled  the 
erstwhile  dapper  whiteness  of  her  guards  and  saloon 
walls.  He  lay  on  his  oars  for  a  space,  regarding 
with  meditative  eyes  the  ruin,  analogous,  it  seemed 
to  the  far-reaching  ruin  that  had  its  inception  here 
and  that  had  trailed  him  so  ruthlessly  many  a  day. 
In  his  dreary  idleness  he  was  sensible  of  a  species 
of  languid  curiosity  as  to  the  extent  of  the  ravages 
of  water  and  decay  in  comparatively  so  short  a 
time.  Only  a  few  months  ago,  in  the  past  October, 
he  had  been  aboard  the  packet,  when  trig  and  sound, 
and  immaculately  white  and  fully  equipped,  she  had 
run  aground  on  this  treacherous  bar,  where  her 
bones  were  destined  to  rot.  He  wondered  that  the 
wreckers  had  left  so  much,  unless,  indeed,  their 
operations  were  frustrated  by  the  sudden  impending 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        391 

rise  of  the  waters.  The  craft  lay  listed  to  one  side, 
the  hull  evidently  smashed  like  an  egg-shell  by  the 
furious  onslaught  of  the  storm,  but  a  part  of  the 
superstructure — the  texas  and  the  pilot-house — was 
still  above  water,  though  canted  queerly  askew. 

Floyd-Rosney  rowed  briskly  to  the  stair  that  for 
merly  served  to  ascend  to  the  hurricane  deck,  the 
skiff  running  up  flush  with  the  flight.  He  sprang  out 
— first  trying  the  integrity  of  the  wood  with  a  cau 
tious  foot,  and  tied  the  painter  firmly  to  one  of  the 
posts  that  supported  the  hurricane  deck,  leaving  the 
boat  leaping  on  the  ripples,  as  if  seeking  to  break 
away  from  some  ponderous  creature  of  its  own  kind 
that  would  fain  drag  it  down  into  the  hopeless  devas 
tations  of  a  lair  in  the  depths. 

With  a  deep  sigh  Floyd-Rosney  slowly  ascended 
the  few  steps  of  the  stair  above  the  current,  and 
stood  looking  drearily  down  upon  the  structure 
wherein  were  lived  those  scenes  so  momentous  in 
his  fate  so  short  a  time  ago.  As  he  walked  along 
the  canted  floor,  his  white  cap  in  his  hand,  his  head 
bared  to  the  breeze,  he  glanced  now  and  again 
through  the  shattered  cabin  lights  down  into  the 
saloon,  seeing  there  the  water  continuously  swirl 
ing  in  the  melancholy  spaces,  once  full  of  radiance 
and  cheer  and  genial  company.  All  the  doors  of  the 
staterooms  had  been  removed,  both  those  opening 
on  the  guards  and  the  inner  ones,  of  which  the 
panels  were  decorated  with  mirrors  and  which  gave 
upon  the  saloon.  A  vague  jingle  caught  his  atten 
tion;  a  fragment  of  an  electrolier  still  clung  to  the 
ceiling  and  sometimes,  shaken  by  the  ripples,  its 
glass  pendants  sent  forth  a  shrill,  disconsolate  vibra 
tion,  like  a  note  of  funereal  keening.  Suddenly  from 


392       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

amidst  that  weird  desolation  of  shifting  waters  a 
face  stared  up  at  him.  It  was  unmistakable.  He 
saw  it  distinctly.  But  when  he  looked  again  it  was 
gone. 

Floyd-Rosney  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
He  had  turned  ghastly  pale.  But  for  the  wall  of 
the  texas  against  which  he  staggered  he  might  have 
fallen.  He  did  not  question  the  reality  of  his  im 
pression.  It  was  as  definite  as  the  light  of  day, — 
a  face  strangely  familiar,  yet  sinister,  seen  in  the 
murky  depths.  He  wondered  wildly  if  it  could  be 
the  drowned  face  of  some  victim  of  the  wreck,  or 
if  this  were  now  impossible,  some  curious  explorer 
such  as  himself,  meeting  here  more  serious  mystery 
than  any  he  had  sought.  The  next  moment  he  broke 
into  a  harsh  laugh  of  scorn.  It  was  his  own  re 
flection!  At  the  end  of  the  saloon,  where  the  craft 
lay  highest  on  the  bar,  one  of  the  mirrored  doors, 
shattered  doubtless  in  careless  handling  in  process 
of  removal,  had  been  left  as  useless.  In  this  frag 
ment  he  had  seen  his  face  for  one  moment,  and  then 
the  ripples  played  over  the  glass  and  the  semblance 
was  gone,  returning  now  again.  But  Floyd-Rosney 
had  no  mind  to  watch  these  weird,  illusory  antics.  It 
was  horrible  to  him  to  see  his  face  mirrored  anew, 
distorted  in  those  foul  depths  where  he  had  been 
once  well  and  happy  and  full  of  exuberant  life  and 
hope,  with  wife  and  child  and  fortune,  every  desire 
of  his  heart  gratified,  both  hands  full  and  running 
over. 

As  he  turned  away  he  was  surprised  to  note  how 
the  shock  had  shaken  his  composure,  his  nerves.  He 
was  loath  to  quit  his  posture  against  the  wall  of  the 
texas  that  had  supported  him.  His  long,  intent 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        393 

gaze  into  the  swirl  of  the  waters  had  induced  a  ten 
dency  to  vertigo,  and  he  looked  about  for  something 
that  might  serve  for  a  seat.  The  pilot-house  was 
but  two  or  three  steps  above,  and  there  were  seats 
built  into  the  wall,  he  remembered. 

He  made  shift  to  clamber  up  the  short  flight.  The 
door  was  still  on  its  hinges,  but  so  defaced  and 
splintered  as  to  be  not  worth  removing,  and  so 
askew  as  to  be  difficult  to  open.  With  one  strong 
effort,  for  Floyd-Rosney  was  a  powerful  man,  he 
burst  it  ajar,  although  it  swung  back  to  its  previous 
position,  implying  a  like  difficulty  in  opening  it 
again. 

He  sat  down  on  the  farther  side,  on  the  bare 
bench,  the  upholstery  having  disappeared,  and 
waited  to  regain  his  composure.  Once  more  he  had 
recourse  to  the  brandy  flask,  now  nearly  empty. 
Once  more  the  fires  streamed  through  nerve  and 
fiber,  revivifying  his  every  impulse.  He  felt  that 
he  was  himself  again,  as  he  gazed  through  the 
blank  spaces  where  the  glass  was  wont  to  be,  at  the 
vast  expanse  of  the  great  river,  now  a  glittering 
sheen  under  a  sudden  cast  of  the  sun.  Beautiful 
chromatic  suggestions  were  mirrored  back  from  the 
sky;  a  stretch  of  illuminated  lilac,  an  ethereal  hue 
touched  the  vivid  green  of  the  opposite  bank.  A 
play  of  rose  and  gold  was  in  the  westward  ripples, 
and  one  bar,  athwart  the  tawny  reach,  of  crude,  in 
tense  vermillion  betokened  a  cloud  of  scarlet,  har 
binger  of  sunset  in  the  offing.  He  could  see  the 
little  house  on  stilts  to  the  left  hand,  now  like  a  boat 
on  the  water.  In  the  enforced  stay  here,  when 
aground  on  the  sand-bar,  he  had  time  to  familiarize 
himself  with  even  unvalued  elements  of  the  land- 


394        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

scape.  To  the  right  was  a  bayou,  the  current 
running  with  great  force  down  its  broad  channel, 
as  wide  as  an  ordinary  river,  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bight  of  the  bend,  lay  the  Aglaia.  He  won 
dered  if  the  Cherokee  Rose  was  an  object  of  the 
scrutiny  of  the  skipper's  binocle.  Floyd-Rosney 
thought  that  he  should  be  on  the  watch  for  his  em 
ployer's  return,  which  was  doubtless  the  fact,  as  he 
had  no  other  duties  in  hand. 

Floyd-Rosney  was  still  eyeing  the  craft,  meditat 
ing  how  best  to  signal  his  wish  to  be  taken  back  to 
the  Aglaia,  when  a  sudden  sound  caught  his  atten 
tion — a  sound  of  swift  steps.  They  came  rapidly 
along  the  hurricane  deck,  where  he  himself  had 
found  footing,  mounted  the  short  stair  to  the  texas, 
and  the  next  moment  the  door  of  the  pilot-house  was 
burst  ajar  and  the  face  and  form  of  Adrian  Ducie 
appeared  at  the  entrance. 

Floyd-Rosney  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"What  does  this  mean,  sir?"  he  cried,  thickly,  the 
veins  of  his  forehead  swollen  stiff  and  blue,  his  face 
scarlet,  his  eyes  flashing  fire. 

The  newcomer  seemed  surprised  beyond  measure. 
He  stared  at  Floyd-Rosney  as  if  doubting  his  senses 
and  could  not  collect  his  thoughts  or  summon  words 
until  Floyd-Rosney  blustered  forth : 

"Why  this  intrusion!  Leave  this  place  instantly!" 

"It  is  no  intrusion,  and  I  will  go  at  my  own  good 
pleasure.  I  came  here  thinking  to  find  a  man  with 
whom  I  have  business." 

"Well,  you  have  found  him.  A  business  that 
should  have  been  settled  between  us  long  ago!"  He 
advanced  a  step,  and  he  had  his  right  hand  in  his 
pocket. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        395 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"You'll  find  out,  as  sure  as  your  name  is  Randal 
Ducie,"  hissed  Floyd-Rosney. 

"That's  exactly  what  it  is  not.  I  am  Adrian 
Ducie." 

"You  can't  play  that  game  with  me.  I  know  your 
cursed  face  well  enough.  I  will  mark  it  now,  so  that 
there  will  never  be  any  more  mistakes  between  you." 

Adrian  had  thought  he  had  a  pistol,  but  it  was  a 
knife — a  large  clasp  knife  which  he  had  opened  with 
difficulty  because  of  the  strength  of  its  spring  as  he 
fumbled  with  it  in  his  pocket.  He  thrust  violently 
at  Ducie's  face,  who  only  avoided  the  blow  by  sud 
denly  springing  aside;  the  blade  struck  the  door 
with  such  force  as  to  shiver  off  a  fragment  of  the 
wood. 

Taken  at  this  disadvantage  it  was  impossible  for 
Adrian  to  retreat  in  the  precarious  footing  of  the 
wreck  and  useless  to  call  for  help.  He  could  only 
defend  himself  with  his  bare  hands. 

"I  call  you  to  observe,  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "that  I  am  unarmed!" 

"So  much  the  better!"  cried  Floyd-Rosney,  strik 
ing  furiously  with  the  knife  at  the  face  he  hated 
with  such  rancor. 

But  this  time  Adrian  caught  at  the  other  man's 
arm  to  deflect  the  blow  and  there  ensued  a  fierce 
struggle  for  the  possession  of  the  knife,  the  only 
weapon  between  them.  While  Floyd-Rosney  was 
the  heavier  and  the  stronger  of  the  combatants, 
Adrian  was  the  more  active  and  the  quicker  of  re 
source.  He  had  almost  wrested  the  knife  from 
Floyd-Rosney's  grasp;  in  seeking  to  close  the  blade 
the  sharp  edge  was  brought  down  on  Floyd-Rosney's 


396        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

hand,  and  the  blood  spurted  out.  The  next  moment 
he  had  regained  it  and  he  rushed  at  his  adversary's 
face — the  point  held  high.  Pushing  him  back  with 
one  hand  against  his  breast  Adrian  once  more  de 
flected  his  aim  from  his  eyes  and  face,  but  the  point 
struck  lower  with  the  full  force  of  Floyd-Rosney's 
terrific  lunge,  piercing  the  throat  and  severing  the 
jugular  vein. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

As  his  antagonist  fell  heavily  to  the  floor,  the 
force  of  the  impact  shaking  the  crazy,  ruinous  super 
structure  of  the  boat  with  a  sinister  menace,  Floyd- 
Rosney's  first  emotion  was  the  stirring  of  the  im 
pulse  of  self-preservation.  Not  one  moment  was 
wasted  in  indecision.  He  stepped  deftly  across  the 
prostrate  body,  wrenched  the  door  open  with  a  vio 
lent  effort  and  with  satisfaction  heard  the  dislocated 
spring  slam  it  noisily  behind  him.  There  the  corpse 
would  lie  indefinitely,  unless,  indeed,  the  man  whom 
Ducie  had  professed  to  seek  should  come  to  keep 
an  appointment;  probably  he  had  already  been  here, 
and  had  gone,  for  the  mustering  splendors  of  the 
evening  sky  betokened  how  the  hours  wore  on  to 
sunset.  As  Floyd-Rosney  took  his  way  with  a  swift, 
sure  step  to  the  stair  where  his  boat  still  struggled 
at  the  end  of  the  painter  attached  to  the  post,  he 
noted  that  Ducie  had  followed  his  example  and  se 
cured  his  own  skiff  in  like  manner.  A  sudden  moni 
tion  of  precaution  occurred  to  Floyd-Rosney  even  in 
his  precipitation,  and  in  loosing  his  own  craft  he 
set  the  other  adrift,  reflecting  that  to  leave  it  here 
was  to  advertise  the  presence  of  its  owner  aboard 
the  Cherokee  Rose;  the  current,  sweeping  as  if  im 
pelled  by  some  tremendous  artificial  force  as  of 
steam  or  electricity,  set  strongly  toward  the  shore, 
and  the  boat,  swiftly  gliding  on  the  ripples,  would 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

ultimately  ground  itself  on  the  bank,  affording  evi 
dence  that  Ducie  had  landed.  As  without  an  in 
stant's  hesitation  he  busied  himself  in  putting  his 
plan  into  execution  he  did  not  think  once  of  the 
powerful  lenses  of  the  binocle  of  the  skipper,  at 
watch  for  his  return  on  the  bow  of  the  beautiful 
Aglaia,  lying  there  in  the  bend  of  the  river,  not  two 
miles  away,  like  a  swan  on  the  water,  between  the 
radiant  evening  sky,  and  the  irradiated  stream,  re 
flecting  her  white  breast  as  she  floated,  a  vision  sus 
pended  in  soft  splendors. 

He  had  a  momentary  doubt  of  the  wisdom  of  his 
course,  as  he  took  up  his  oars,  and  the  possibility 
of  this  observation  occurred  to  him.  Then  he  en 
deavored  to  reassure  himself.  It  was  the  only  prac 
ticable  procedure,  he  argued.  He  took  the  chance 
of  being  unobserved,  while  otherwise  the  boat, 
swinging  at  the  stairway,  would  unavoidably  excite 
curiosity  and  allure  investigation.  Still,  he  would 
have  preferred  to  have  had  that  possibility  in  mind, 
before  taking  incriminating  action, — to  have  had  his 
course  a  matter  of  choice  instead  of  making  the  best 
of  it. 

From  this  moment  circumstances  seemed  con 
torted  and  difficult  of  adjustment.  He  had  not 
noticed  in  his  absorption  that  the  cut  inflicted  upon 
him  from  his  own  knife  was  bleeding  profusely,  and 
beginning  to  sting  and  smart  violently.  He  must 
have  unwittingly  scattered  drops  of  blood  all  along 
the  deck  and  stairs  as  he  came.  It  was  a  marvel, 
he  reflected,  still  optimistic  in  instinctive  self-defense, 
that  none  had  fallen  on  his  suit  of  white  flannel.  He 
held  the  wounded  hand  in  the  water,  hoping  to 
stanch  the  flow,  but  the  red  drops  welled  forth  with 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        399 

an  impetuous  gush,  as  of  a  burst  of  tears.  The  cut 
was  not  deep,  but  it  was  clear  and  clean,  for  the 
blade  had  been  as  sharp  as  a  razor.  With  a  little 
time  it  would  dry  in  the  cicatrix  and  close  the 
wound.  His  back  toward  the  Aglaia,  he  felt  suf 
ficiently  free  of  espionage  to  tear  his  linen  handker 
chief  to  shreds,  using  his  teeth  to  start  the  rent,  for 
with  that  hand  dripping  not  only  with  blood,  but 
with  bloodguiltiness,  he  dared  not  search  his  pockets 
for  his  knife.  He  bound  up  the  wound,  carefully, 
his  plans  forming  in  his  mind  with  all  minute  de 
tail  as  he  adjusted  the  bandages.  He  would  loiter 
about  the  river,  he  said  to  himself,  till  the  bleeding 
ceased,  which  must  be  in  half  an  hour's  time,  and 
the  hand  would  then  not  be  liable  to  notice.  With 
his  splendid  physical  condition  any  wound  would 
be  swift  in  healing.  It  would  be  close  on  nightfall, 
he  meditated,  and  this  was  all  the  better,  for  he 
would  board  the  yacht  under  cover  of  the  darkness 
and  give  orders  to  drop  down  the  river  to  the  Gulf, 
thence  to  the  open  sea — his  ultimate  destination  be 
ing  some  port  beyond  the  reach  of  extradition,  for 
he  had  lately  tested  his  hold  on  public  favor,  and 
was  resolved  to  risk  nothing  on  its  uncertain  tenure. 
He  could  perfect  his  plans  when  in  mid-ocean. 
Meantime,  the  present  claimed  all  his  faculties. 

With  the  fast  plying  oars  and  the  strong  sweep  of 
the  current  the  skiff  shot  along  with  a  speed  that 
suggested  a  winning  shell  in  a  Varsity  race.  When 
he  approached  within  ear-shot  of  the  Aglaia  he 
hailed  the  skipper,  who  promptly  responded  from 
the  deck,  and  still  at  a  considerable  distance,  well  in 
mid-channel,  Floyd-Rosney  shouted  out  his  inten 
tions  to  proceed  in  the  skiff  a  few  miles  further,  as 


400       THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

he  wished  to  investigate  the  old  Duciehurst  mansion, 
and  ordered  the  Aglala  to  drop  down  at  six  o'clock 
and  pick  him  up  there. 

As  his  excitement  and  the  fever  of  his  fury  began 
to  subside,  the  flow  of  blood  slackened  perceptibly. 
He  noticed  that  the  saturated  portion  of  the  ban 
dage  was  growing  stiff  and  dry;  that  the  blood  no 
longer  continued  to  spread  on  the  fabric.  He  would 
throw  it  away  presently  and  wash  his  hands  clear 
of  the  traces  in  the  river. 

He  looked  up  at  the  massive  walls  of  Duciehurst 
with  a  deep  rancor  as  he  approached  the  old  man 
sion.  The  braided  currents,  making  diagonally 
across  the  river,  were  carrying  him  toward  it  as 
if  he  were  borne  thither  by  no  will  of  his  own,  and 
indeed  this  was  in  some  sort  true. 

He  loathed  to  see  it  again.  He  wished  he  had 
never  seen  it.  Yet  in  the  same  instant  he  upbraided 
his  attitude  of  mind  as  folly.  What  man  of  busi 
ness  instincts,  he  argued,  would  revolt  against  a 
great  and  substantial  accession  to  his  fortune,  com 
ing  to  him  in  regular  course  of  law,  because  it  was 
coveted  by  its  former  owners,  ousted  forty  years  be 
fore.  He  felt  hard  hit  by  untoward  fate.  All 
had  been  against  him,  from  the  beginning  of  this 
accursed  imbroglio.  He  had  done  what  he  had 
thought  right  and  proper, — what  any  sane  and  just 
man  would  endorse — and  he  had  lost  wife,  child, 
and  heavily  in  estate,  and  was  possibly  destined  to 
exile  for  life, — if — if  that  ghastly  witness  on  the 
stranded  steamer  should  take  up  its  testimony 
against  him.  But  no!  it  was  silenced  forever!  It 
could  not  even  protect  the  man  whom  Ducie  had 
expected  to  meet  should  that  unlucky  wight  persist 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        401 

in  keeping  his  appointment,  finding  more  than  he 
bargained  for,  Floyd-Rosney  said  grimly. 

The  boat  was  running  cleverly  in  to  his  destina 
tion.  The  landing  was  under  water  already,  and  the 
skiff  glided  over  its  location  with  never  a  sign  sug 
gesting  its  submergence.  The  old  levee  was  indi 
cated  in  barely  a  long  ripple,  washing  continually 
above  its  summit,  and  this,  too,  the  skiff  skimmed, 
undulating  merely  to  the  tossing  of  the  waters  about 
the  obstruction.  The  relative  height  of  the  ground 
on  which  the  deserted  mansion  stood  alone  protected 
it  from  inundation,  although  as  yet  the  disaster  of 
overflow  had  nowhere  fallen  upon  the  land.  But 
evidently  the  water  would  soon  be  within  the  fine 
old  rooms,  and  Floyd-Rosney,  looking  with  the  eye 
of  a  wealthy  as  well  as  thrifty  proprietor  upon  the 
scene,  not  only  willing  but  able  to  protect,  felt  with 
a  surly  sigh  of  frustration  that  but  for  the  impend 
ing  lawsuit  he  would  have  built  a  stanch  levee  to  re 
claim  the  old  ruin,  even  though  there  was  a  service 
able  embankment  protecting  the  lands  in  the  rear. 

The  large  arrogance  of  the  massive  cornice  of  the 
main  building,  the  wide  spread  of  the  wings  on 
either  side,  appealed  to  his  taste  of  a  justified  mag 
nificence.  This  structure  was  erected  in  the  days 
of  princelings  who  had  the  opulence  to  sustain  its 
pretensions,  and  of  his  acquaintance  he  knew  no  man 
but  himself  who  could  afford  the  waste  of  money  on 
its  restoration.  There  was  something  appealing  to 
an  esthetic  sense  in  the  forwardness  of  the  neg 
lected  vegetation  about  the  glassless  goggle-eyed 
ruin.  In  the  magnolias  on  either  side  of  the  wings 
he  caught  sight  of  the  white  glint  of  blooms,  so  early 
though  it  was!  the  pink  wands  of  the  almond  bios- 


402        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

soms  waved  here  and  there  in  the  breeze.  The 
grass  of  the  terraces  was  freshly  springing.  Vines 
draped  the  broken  pedestals  that  had  once  upheld 
stone  vases,  and  on  the  facade  of  the  tall  structure 
the  sun  crept  up  and  up  as  suavely  benign,  as  loath 
to  leave  as  in  the  days  when  its  splendors  dominated 
the  Mississippi,  the  "show  place"  of  all  the  river. 

Floyd-Rosney  walked  slowly  along  the  broad 
pavement  and  up  the  long  flight  of  steps  to  the  wide 
doorless  portal.  Within  shadows  lurked,  and 
memories — how  bitter!  He  hesitated  to  go  in — the 
influence  of  the  place  was  like  the  thrall  of  a  fate. 
He  wished  again  he  had  never  seen  it.  But  he  could 
hear,  so  definitely  the  water  transmitted  the  sound, 
the  engines  of  the  Aglaia  getting  up  steam,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  the  scrutiny  of  the  skipper's  power 
ful  lenses. 

Through  all  the  vacant  vastness  swept  the  fresh 
breath  of  the  river,  so  close  at  hand.  The  light 
from  the  sinking  sun,  broadly  aslant,  fell  through 
the  gaping  windows  and  lay  athwart  the  rooms  in 
immaterial  bands  of  burnished  gold.  The  illusion 
of  motion  was  continuous  on  the  grand  staircase 
where  the  motes  danced  in  ethereal,  hazy  illumina 
tion.  The  contrasting  dun-gray  shadows  imparted 
a  depth  and  richness  to  the  flare  of  ruddy  gold, 
reddening  dreamily  as  the  day  slowly  tended  to  its 
close.  All  was  silence,  absolute  silence.  As  he 
wandered  aimlessly  from  room  to  room,  his  step  loud 
in  the  quietude,  the  delicate  scent  of  a  white  jessa 
mine,  early  abloom,  bringing  its  vernal  tribute  of 
incense  to  the  forlorn  old  ruin  year  after  year,  de 
spite  half  a  century  of  neglect,  thrilled  his  senses 
and  smote  some  chord  of  softer  feeling.  A  senti- 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        403 

ment  of  self-justification  rose  in  his  breast.  How 
was  it  that  all  had  gone  with  him  so  strangely  awry  1 
Wherein  had  he  erred?  He  had  but  exerted  his 
prerogative  to  order  the  affairs  of  his  family  accord 
ing  to  his  best  judgment  in  its  interest,  as  any  man 
might  and  should  do,  and — behold,  this  tumult  of 
tortures  was  unloosed  upon  him.  His  wife  had  util 
ized  the  opportunity  as  a  pretext  to  flee  to  Randal 
Ducie,  and  but  for  this  day's  work  the  deserted  and 
divorced  would  have  been  fleeced  by  the  courts  to 
finance  the  new  matrimonial  venture.  He  had  done 
right,  he  said,  thrusting  his  white  cap  back  from  his 
heated  brow.  He  had  done  well. 

It  had  not  been  his  intention  to  kill  an  unarmed 
man;  the  fatality  of  the  blow  had  been  an  acci 
dent,  but  it  was  irrevocable,  and  it  behooved  him 
to  look  to  the  future.  No  one  but  the  skipper  of 
the  Aglaia  could  have  known  of  his  entrance  upon 
the  derelict,  and  if  he  had  chanced  to  observe  it,  a 
word  in  his  employee's  ear,  that  he  had  discovered 
the  body  there — murdered  probably — and  did  not 
wish  to  be  called  as  witness  would  be  sufficient  for 
the  present;  the  skipper  would  have  forgotten  the 
whole  incident  before  he  had  entered  the  first  day's 
run  at  sea  in  the  log  of  the  Aglaia.  There  was  no 
reason  to  connect  him  with  the  tragedy  except  that 
the  two  were  on  the  river  the  same  day.  He  had  re 
tracted,  and  exonerated,  and  handsomely  eaten  all 
manner  of  humble  pie,  and  it  was  to  be  supposed 
that  relations  had  been  established  as  friendly  as 
could  exist  between  rival  claimants  of  an  estate  now 
to  be  adjudicated  by  the  courts. 

He  looked  down  at  his  hand.  The  wound  that 
had  so  perversely  bled  showed  only  pallid  lips,  but 


404        THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHUKST 

no  sign  of  red.  He  could  not  remember  if  he  had 
thoroughly  wiped  the  gory  knife  and  began  appre 
hensively  to  search  his  pockets.  Not  here — not 
there.  He  grew  ghastly  pale.  His  breath  came 
quick  in  suffocating  gasps  as  he  realized  the  truth. 
He  had  failed  to  repossess  himself  of  the  knife  at 
that  supreme  moment  of  tragedy.  He  had  an  il 
luminating  recollection,  as  if  he  beheld  the  scene 
anew,  that  the  blade  had  caught  on  some  strong  liga 
ment  or  cartilage  in  the  man's  throat  and  as  the  vic 
tim  swayed  and  fell  heavily  he  had  not  sought  to 
secure  it. 

"Fool !  Fool !"  the  empty  building  rang  with  the 
sound,  and  a  score  of  frantic  echoes  shouted  op 
probrium  upon  him.  He  clasped  his  quivering 
hands  above  his  head  and  sought  to  command  his 
thoughts.  He  had  been  too  drunk  at  the  time  to 
realize  the  fact,  but  the  knife  was  a  witness  which 
would  indubitably  fix  the  crime  upon  him.  Like  all 
his  personal  accessories  it  was  the  handsomest  thing 
of  the  kind  that  could  be  bought,  and  on  the  silver 
plate  on  the  handle  was  engraved,  according  to  his 
wont,  his  monogram.  He  started  violently  toward 
the  hall.  He  must  go  back, — but  he  could  never 
row  the  distance,  exhausted,  as  he  was,  against  the 
current.  He  would  have  the  Aglaia  to  steam  up  on 
some  pretext,  and  in  company  with  the  skipper  they 
would  discover  the  body,  when  unperceived  he  could 
repossess  himself  of  the  knife.  He  was  terrified  at 
the  prospect  of  the  attempt.  He  felt  himself  already 
in  toils.  He  tossed  his  hands  above  his  head  and 
wrung  them  wildly.  A  hoarse  cry  of  agony  burst 
from  his  lips,  suddenly  dying  in  his  throat,  for — was 
that  an  echo  in  the  resounding  vacancy?  A  strange 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST        405 

sound,  a  great  pervasive  sound  was  filling  all  the  air, 
as  if  the  old  house  quavered,  and  groaned,  and  cried 
out  in  long  endured  anguish.  There  was  a  rush 
upon  the  staircase;  he  saw  through  the  open  doors 
of  the  drawing-rooms  shadowy,  flitting  figures  de 
scending  in  crowds  as  if  the  ancient  ghosts  that  had 
found  harbor  here  were  fleeing  their  refuge. 

Nay,  only  coils  on  coils  of  dust.  As  he  rushed 
forth  into  the  hall  he  perceived  at  the  end  of  the 
long  perspective  the  great  Mississippi  River,  as  in 
some  strange  dislocation  of  the  angle  of  vision, 
reaching — illuminated  and  splendid — to  the  flaunt 
ing  evening  sky. 

And  from  the  Mississippi  River  the  lenses  of  the 
steam  yacht  Aglaia,  focused  on  the  old  mansion  of 
Duciehurst,  saw  it  at  one  moment  still  and  silent,  ma 
jestic  even,  in  its  melancholy  ruin,  the  sun  lingering 
on  its  massive  cornice  and  columnated  portico.  The 
next  it  slid  as  softly  from  vision  as  an  immaterial 
mirage.  The  caving  bank  had  gone  down  into  the 
unimaginable  depths  of  the  river,  carrying  on  its 
floods  a  thousand  acres  of  disintegrating  land  and 
the  turbulent  waters  of  the  liberated  Mississippi 
were  flowing  deep  over  the  cotton  fields  of  Ducie 
hurst  plantation,  two  miles  inland. 

In  the  widespread  commotion  of  the  flood  it  was 
fortunate  for  the  Aglaia,  even  though  so  far  up 
stream — distant  in  the  bight  of  the  bend — that  steam 
was  already  up  in  the  boilers.  Forging  up  the  river, 
against  the  current,  at  her  maximum  speed,  the 
yacht  in  the  seething  turmoil  found  no  safe  anchor 
age  till  near  the  bar  where  the  derelict  lay.  Here 
she  swung  round  and  the  officers  sought  to  inaugu 
rate  measures  to  recover  if  it  were  possible  the  body 


406        THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

of  Floyd-Rosney,  who  had  indubitably  perished  in 
the  submergence  of  the  mansion.  The  whole  region 
was  aroused  and  aghast  at  the  magnitude  of  the  dis 
aster.  From  the  deck  of  the  yacht  were  visible 
hurrying  groups  as  the  population  pressed  toward 
the  ill-fated  scene.  The  skipper's  megaphone  was  in 
constant  requisition  as  being  an  eye-witness  of  the 
calamity  he  alone  could  give  authentic  information. 
Randal  Ducie,  hastening  down  to  his  levee,  was  met 
on  the  summit  by  the  information  that  his  ancestral 
estate  had  ceased  to  exist,  swept  from  the  face  of 
the  earth  as  completely  as  if  it  had  never  been.  Its 
restoration  had  long  been  the  object  nearest  his 
heart,  its  sequestration  in  alien  possession  was  the 
hardship  of  his  life.  But  he  showed  scant  emotion. 
Some  subtle,  inexplicable  premonition  of  catastrophe 
infinitely  heart-rending  annulled  the  sense  of  loss. 

"Where's  my  brother?"  he  demanded  irrele 
vantly,  and  despite  the  remonstrances  of  the  by 
standers  he  threw  himself  into  a  skiff  at  the  land 
ing  and  pulled  out  on  the  tossing,  turbulent  tide.  As 
the  rage  of  the  river  subsided  the  search  was  joined 
by  others,  and  a  wild  rumor  of  some  disaster  to 
Adrian  Ducie  quickly  pervaded  the  vicinity.  The 
finding  of  his  rowboat  on  the  Arkansas  shore  did  not 
prove  his  landing,  according  to  Floyd-Rosney's  fore 
cast,  for  the  craft  was  caught  in  a  tangle  of  saw- 
grass  in  a  marshy  swamp  where  footing  was  im 
practicable.  The  old  negro  to  whom  Floyd-Rosney 
had  spoken  in  the  afternoon  was  now  returning  from 
his  errand  down  the  river,  which  was  gray  with  a 
slowly  gathering  mist,  and  melancholy  with  a  cast 
of  the  silent  and  pallid  moon.  He  hove  near  the 
little  fleet  of  rowboats  that  roved  the  shadows  and 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        407 

asked  a  question  concerning  the  appearance  of  the 
missing  man,  with  whom  he  thought  it  possible  he 
had  had  some  conversation  an  hour  or  so  ago. 

"He  looks  like  me,"  said  Randal  Ducie,  throw 
ing  his  face  into  high  relief  with  an  electric  flash 
light,  and  turning  with  poignant  hope  toward  the 
boatman. 

"Oh,  no,  sah!  No,  sah!"  disconsolately  admitted 
the  old  darkey,  blinking  in  the  glare.  "Nebber  saw 
two  folks  more  onsimilar.  Mr.  Ran  Ducie,  I 
knowed  you,  Sah,  from  way  back.  Knowed  yer 
daddy.  Dis  man  looked  like  he  thunk  I  war  de  wum 
o'  de  yearth,  an'  de  yearth  war  built  fur  him,  though 
I  never  p'sumed  ter  talk  ter  him.  'Twar  him  fust 
p'sumed  ter  talk  ter  me.  He  war  dressed  beautified, 
too,  with  white  flannel  suit,  an'  a  white  cap,  an'  hand 
some  ter  kill." 

"Floyd-Rosney,"  Randal  muttered  through  his 
set  teeth.  "And  where  did  he  go?" 

"Ter  de  ole  Cher'kee  Rose,  sah,"  the  negro 
pointed  at  the  derelict,  lying  on  the  bar,  visible 
amidst  the  shadows  thronging  the  river  in  the  ghostly 
gleams  of  the  moon  that  was  wont  to  patrol  the  deck, 
and  seek  out  the  dark  recesses  of  the  cabin  where  the 
rise  and  subsidence  of  the  water  registered  its  fluc 
tuations,  and  to  look  through  the  windows  of  the 
pilot-house  where  the  steersman  at  the  wheel  once 
took  his  bearings. 

It  was  a  stupendous  moment  in  a  man's  life  when 
Randal  Ducie  stood  in  the  shattered  old  pilot-house 
and  looked  down  into  his  own  dead  face,  as  it  were, 
ghastly  pale  and  silent,  under  the  moon's  desolate 
light.  The  tie  between  the  brothers  had  been  more 
than  the  love  of  women,  and  the  heart  of  the  whole 


408       THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

countryside  bled  for  Randal's  grief.  The  extraor 
dinary  resemblance  of  the  two,  their  fraternal  devo 
tion,  their  exile  from  the  home  of  their  fathers,  and 
its  wrongful  detention  in  the  possession  of  others, 
the  destruction  of  the  property  by  the  caving  bank, 
the  greatest  disaster  the  country  had  known  for  a 
half  century,  when  its  restoration  to  its  rightful 
heirs  seemed  imminent,  all  appealed  with  tender 
commiseration  to  the  heart  of  the  world,  albeit  not 
easily  touched,  and  a  flood  of  condolence  poured  in 
unregarded  upon  Randal  where  he  sat  in  his  solitary 
home  with  bowed  head  and  bated  pulses,  scarcely 
living  himself,  admitting  no  business,  seeing  no 
friend,  opening  no  letter. 

The  knife  that  Floyd-Rosney  had  left  piercing  the 
dead  man's  throat  had  fixed  the  crime  upon  him, 
together  with  the  testimony  at  the  inquest  of  the  old 
negro  boatman,  who  had  seen  him  take  his  way  to 
the  derelict,  and  that  of  the  skipper  who  had 
watched  him  through  the  binocle  of  the  Aglaia  de 
scend  the  steps,  unloose  both  the  boats  that  swung 
on  the  tide,  secured  to  a  post,  and  set  one  adrift 
while  he  rowed  the  other,  the  appurtenance  of  the 
Aglaia. 

It  was  well,  Randal  felt,  taking  in  these  proceed 
ings  the  only  interest  he  could  scourge  his  mind  to 
entertain,  that  he  was  not  called  upon  to  prosecute 
on  circumstantial  evidence  some  forlorn  water  rat, 
or  some  friendless  negro  for  the  millionaire's  crime, 
as  doubtless  Floyd-Rosney  had  contemplated. 
Though  the  death  of  the  gentle  and  genial  Adrian 
went  unavenged,  save  by  the  heavy  hand  of  Heaven 
itself,  it  wrought  no  calamity  to  others,  except  in 
his  incomparable  loss. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ONE  evening,  late  in  the  summer,  the  melancholy 
recluse,  who  might  have  forgotten,  so  seldom  did 
he  speak,  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  strolled  out 
to  evade  the  intensity  of  the  heat  in  the  hope  of  a 
breath  of  air  from  the  river.  But  no,  it  lay  like  a 
sheet  of  glass,  blank  of  incident — no  breeze,  no 
cloud,  a  pallid  monotony  of  twilight.  He  had  passed 
through  the  lawn  and  came  out  upon  the  levee 
which  in  the  dead  levels  of  that  country  seems  of 
considerable  elevation.  He  loitered  along  the  sum 
mit,  finding  in  the  higher  ground  some  amelioration 
of  the  motionless  atmosphere,  for  it  ceased  to  harass 
him,  and  with  his  heavy  brooding  thoughts  for  com 
pany  he  walked  on  and  on,  till  at  length  he  was 
aroused  by  the  perception  that  in  his  absorption  he 
had  passed  the  limits  of  his  own  domain,  and  was 
trespassing  on  the  precincts  of  a  neighboring  planta 
tion.  This  fact  was  brought  to  his  notice  by  seeing 
a  bench  on  the  levee  which  he  had  not  caused  to  be 
placed  there,  and  behind  it  was  a  mass  of  Cherokee 
rose  hedge,  the  growth  of  which  he  did  not  approve 
on  these  protective  embankments.  On  it  were  many 
waxy  white  blooms,  closing  with  the  waning  day, 
amidst  the  glossy,  deeply  green  foliage,  and  seated 
on  the  bench  was  a  lady  gowned  in  fleecy  white. 

He  scarcely  gave  her  a  glance,  and  with  a  sense 
of  intrusion  he  gravely  lifted  his  hat  as  he  was  turn- 

409 


410       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

ing  away.  But  she  sprang  up  precipitately  and  came 
toward  him. 

"Oh,  Randal,  Randal"  she  exclaimed  in  a  voice 
of  poignant  sympathy,  and  said  no  more.  She  had 
burst  into  a  tempest  of  sobs  and  cries,  and  as  he 
came  toward  her  and  held  out  his  hand,  he  felt  her 
tears  raining  down  on  it  as  she  pressed  it  between 
both  her  soft  palms. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  don't — you  can't — care  for  my 
sympathy,"  Hildegarde  sobbed  out  brokenly.  "It 
is  nothing  to  you  or  to  him,  but  Randal,  he  was  not 
a  man  for  one  friend,  one  mourner.  Everybody 
loved  him  that  knew  him." 

She  had  collapsed  in  her  former  place  on  the 
bench,  her  arm  over  its  back,  her  head  bent  upon  it, 
her  slender  figure  shaken  by  her  sobs. 

"But  he  would  care  for  your  sympathy,  he  would 
value  your  tears,  shed  for  his  sake,"  Randal  said, 
suddenly.  He  walked  to  the  bench  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  "Only  a  few  hours  before — before — he 
was  speaking  to  me  of  you.  How  lovely " 

He  paused  in  embarrassment,  remembering 
Adrian's  protest  how  gladly  he  would  see  his 
brother  make  her  the  chatelaine  of  Duciehurst, — oh, 
dreams,  dreams  I — all  shattered  and  gone ! 

"Did  he— did  he,  really?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  swimming  with  tears  and  ir 
radiated  with  smiles,  that  seemed  to  shine  in  the  dull 
twilight. 

"Oh,  how  I  treasure  the  words!"  Then  after  a 
long  pause — "I  was  afraid  to  speak  to  you,  Randal. 
I  do  everything  wrong!" 

"You?    You  do  everything  right,"  he  declared. 

"I  am  all  impulse,  you  know,"  she  explained. 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"Which  is  so  much  better  than  being  all  design," 
he  interpolated. 

"And  so  I  speak  without  consideration,  and 
might — might  hurt  people's  feelings." 

"Never — never  in  the  world,"  he  insisted. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  forgive  it,  if  it  is  intrusiveness. 
But  I  am  staying  down  here  at  my  aunt's;  she  has 
been  very  ill.  And  I  have  so  longed  to  say  just  one 
word  to  you — to  call  you  by  telephone — or, — some 
thing.  I  would  see  your  solitary  light  burning  across 
the  lake,  so  late,  so  late — you  know  we  have  been 
watchers  here,  too, — and  I  would  think  of  you,  shut 
in  with  your  sorrow,  and  no  human  pity  can  comfort 
you.  So  I  could  only  send  my  prayers  for  you.  Did 
you  feel  my  prayers?" 

They  were  very  real  to  her  in  her  simple  faith, 
very  important,  necessarily  efficacious. 

"No,"  he  said,  honestly.  But  as  her  face  fell  he 
added:  "Perhaps  they  will  be  answered." 

"Oh,  assuredly,"  she  cried,  tremulously,  and  her 
sincerity  touched  him. 

"Whenever  your  light  shines  late  from  your  east 
window  remember  that  I  am  praying  that  you  may 
have  the  grace  to  turn  your  thoughts  joyfully  to  the 
blessed  memories  you  have  of  your  brother,  and  the 
happy  hours  that  were  in  mercy  vouchsafed  to  you, 
and  what  he  was  to  you,  and  what  you  were  to  him, 
and  what  you  will  be  to  each  other  on  the  day  of  the 
great  Reunion.  So  that  you  may  have  strength  to 
take  up  your  duties  in  life  again,  in  usefulness  and 
contentment — like  the  man  you  were  born  to  be,  and 
the  man  you  are.  Then  shall  my  prayers  be  an 
swered,  and  the  memory  of  your  brother  will  be 
come  a  blessing,  and  not  a  blight." 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

There  was  some  responsive  chord  in  that  manly 
heart  of  his  vibrating  strongly  to  this  appeal.  Only 
the  next  day,  struggling  with  an  averse  distaste  and 
wincing  from  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  former 
routine,  he  went  out  to  supervise  the  weighing  of 
the  cotton  in  the  fields,  now  beginning  to  open  with 
a  fair  promise.  He  felt  strangely  grateful  for  the 
hearty  greetings  of  the  laborers,  and  an  humble  ap 
peal  to  right  some  little  injustice  only  within  his 
power  made  his  hands  seem  strong,  and  renewed  his 
sense  of  a  duty  in  the  world. 

The  next  day,  collapsing  on  his  resolution,  it  was 
difficult  to  force  himself  to  take  out  his  fine  horse 
and  drive  as  of  yore  to  the  neighboring  town,  at 
tending  a  meeting  of  the  planters  of  the  vicinity,  all 
agog,  always,  on  the  subject  of  the  operations  of  the 
levee  board. 

When  Sunday  came,  with,  oh,  how  faint  a  spirit, 
he  took  his  downcast  way  to  the  little  neighborhood 
church,  built  in  a  dense  grove,  full  of  shadows  and 
the  sentiment  of  holy  peace,  called  St.  John's  in  the 
Wilderness,  and  his  broken  and  contrite  heart 
seemed  all  poignantly  lacerated  anew  and  bleeding, 
and  found  no  comfort.  It  had  all  the  agony  of  re 
nunciation  to  think  of  his  brother — his  own  other 
self,  his  twin  existence — as  translated  to  that  far, 
spiritual  sphere,  which  we  cannot  realize,  or  formu 
late  aught  of  its  conditions.  His  brother,  alive, 
well,  strong,  loving  and  beloved,  fighting  his  way 
dauntlessly  through  inadequate  resources  and  re 
strictions,  making  and  building  of  his  own  inherent 
values  a  place  for  himself  in  the  world — that  vital 
presence  quenched!  That  loyal,  generous,  gentle 
heart  to  beat  never  again.  It  was  a  thought  to  make 


THE   STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        413 

the  senses  reel.  He  wondered  that  reason  did  not 
fail  before  its  contemplation.  He  felt  his  eyes  grow 
hot  and  burn  in  their  sockets,  and  only  mechanically 
and  from  force  of  habit  could  he  follow  the  service. 
Once,  as  his  unseeing  gaze  turned  restlessly  from  the 
chancel  they  fell  upon  Hildegarde,  seated  in  her 
uncle's  pew.  Her  eyes  were  downcast,  her  face  was 
sweetly  solemn.  A  sense  of  calm  radiated  from  her 
expression,  her  look  of  aloofness  from  the  world. 
There  arose  in  his  mind  the  thought  of  Adrian's 
faith  in  her  genuine  graces  of  character,  which  be 
littled  even  her  charm  and  beauty,  his  wish  that  she 
might  share  the  splendor  of  Ran's  restoration  to 
fortune,  when  it  should  come  full-handed  to  them,, 
that  she  might  grace  the  high  estate  of  the  lady  of 
Duciehurst — oh,  poor  Duciehurst!  He  could  but 
look  upon  her  with  different  eyes  for  the  thought. 
It  was  as  a  bond  between  them. 

He  had  regained  his  composure,  grave  and  de 
jected — all  unlike  his  former  self — by  the  time  the 
sermon  was  ended,  and  he  waited  for  her  at  the 
door;  together  they  walked  silently  to  her  uncle's 
home  under  the  deep  rich  shadows  of  the  primeval 
woods. 

Even  trifles  are  of  moment  in  the  stagnation  of 
interest  in  a  country  neighborhood.  Some  vague 
rumor  of  the  little  incident  that  these  two  had  been 
thus  seen  publicly  together  penetrated  beyond  the 
purview  of  the  parishioners  of  St.  John's  in  the 
Wilderness.  The  association  of  names  came  thus  to 
the  ears  of  Paula  Floyd-Rosney,  and  urged  her  to 
an  action  which  she  had  been  contemplating,  but  had 
relegated  to  a  future  propitious  opportunity.  It 
forced  precipitancy  upon  her.  If  she  intended  to 


414.       THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

move  at  all  time  must  be  taken  into  account,  and  the 
untoward  chance  of  interference  with  her  plans. 
She  was  now  indeed  the  arbiter  of  her  own  destiny, 
she  told  herself.  Her  suit  for  divorce  had  been 
abated  by  reason  of  the  death  of  Floyd-Rosney,  and 
she  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  one-half  of  his  princely 
estate  in  Mississippi — where  the  right  of  dower  has 
been  annulled  and  a  child's  part  substituted  as  the 
share  of  the  wife — and  also  the  "widow's  third"  in 
Tennessee,  for  he  had  died  intestate.  She  was  young, 
and  her  spirits  rebounded  with  the  prospect  of  the 
rehabilitation  of  her  happiness.  Her  heart  bore,  it 
is  true,  some  sorry  scars  which  it  would  carry  to  the 
judgment  day.  But  she  could  not  feel,  she  could  not 
even  feign,  grief  for  her  husband's  fate;  she  knew 
it  was  liberation  for  her  and  his  child.  She  had 
donned,  in  deference  to  the  urgency  of  Mrs.  Ma- 
joribanks,  a  fashionable  version  of  widow's  weeds, 
and  she  had  intended  to  allow  the  traditional  time 
of  mourning  to  expire  before  she  made  haste  to 
gather  the  treasures  of  youth  and  love  that  she  had 
so  recklessly  thrown  away.  She  had  not  even  regret 
for  the  disaster  of  Duciehurst.  She  regarded  its 
destruction  as  the  solution  of  a  problem.  She  would 
not  have  wished  to  win  in  the  lawsuit  the  estate  she 
felt  was  morally  and  equitably  the  property  of  her 
former  lover.  It  was  delightful  to  her  to  be  in  the 
position  to  bestow,  and  not  to  receive.  She  was  in 
case  to  make  brave  amends  for  her  fickle  desertion 
of  Ran  Ducie  at  the  summons  of  wealth  and  splen 
dor.  She  would  go  back  to  him  a  prize  beyond  com 
putation — the  woman  he  loved  and  had  always 
loved,  but  endowed  like  a  princess  and  looking  like 
a  queen.  The  expectation  embellished  her  almost 


THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST      '415 

out  of  recognition;  her  closest  friends  and  casual 
guests — for  she  had  returned  to  her  own  home, 
from  which  she  had  fled — could  but  exclaim  as  her 
beauty  expanded.  "How  I  loved  him!"  she  would 
whisper  to  herself,  and  sometimes  she  wondered  if 
those  five  dread  years  under  the  yoke  were  not 
heavy  payment  for  the  fortune  she  was  bringing 
him.  The  consciousness  of  this  great  wealth  made 
her  the  more  confident,  the  more  plausible  in  the 
letter  she  wrote  him.  Though  she  had  feared  sup- 
plantation,  it  was  only  because  he  might  be  in  igno 
rance  of  her  attitude  toward  him. 

It  took  the  form  of  a  letter  of  condolence.  She 
declared  she  yearned  to  express  her  deep  sympathy 
for  him,  although  she  had  felt  he  might  not  care  to 
hear  from  her  on  account  of  her  connection  with  the 
hand  that  struck  the  blow  which  had  so  sorely  af 
flicted  him.  But  she  conjured  him,  by  their  love  for 
each  other,  so  precious  in  the  days  that  were  past, 
to  forbear  thinking  of  her  in  that  wise.  The  vil 
lain  who  had  gone  had  no  hold  on  her  heart.  He 
had  destroyed  her  life.  She  could  confess  to  Randal 
now  that  every  day  of  the  years  and  every  hour  of 
the  days  had  been  one  long  penance  for  her  faith 
less  desertion  of  him,  her  casting  away  his  precious 
heart,  worth  more  than  all  the  gold  of  Ophir.  She 
had  never  regretted  it  but  once,  and  that  was  always, 
and  unceasingly.  She  was  possessed,  she  supposed, 
— or  rather,  consider  that  she  was  so  young,  so 
unsophisticated,  so  blinded  by  the  glare  of  wealth 
and  dizzy  with  the  specious  wiles  of  the  world.  Oh, 
to  live  the  old  days  over  again!  But  he  must  not 
hate  her — he  must  not  associate  her  with  the  name 
as  detestable  to  her  as  to  him.  He  must  remember, 


416       THE   STORY   OP  DUCIEHURST 

instead,  how  sweet  was  the  simple  story  of  their 
love,  and  date  his  thoughts  of  her  from  its  emotions. 
One  thing  she  begged  of  him — let  her  hear  from 
him,  and  soon. 

In  all  her  formulations  of  the  possible  result  of 
this  letter  she  never  anticipated  the  event.  She  had 
been  prepared  for  delay.  Some  little  time  he  must 
have  to  decide  upon  his  course,  his  phrases,  compli 
cated  as  the  whole  incident  was  with  the  memory  of 
the  murderous  Floyd-Rosney.  When  by  return 
mail  she  noted  the  large  white  missive,  with  her 
name  in  his  well-remembered,  decided,  dashing 
chirography,  her  heart  plunged,  and  for  a  moment 
she  almost  thought  it  had  ceased  to  beat.  Her 
hands  trembled  violently  as  she  tore  open  the  en 
velope.  Within  was  her  own  letter  and  on  the  re 
verse  side  of  the  last  sheet  were  penned  these  words : 

"This  letter  should  be  in  your  own  possession. 
The  story  to  which  you  allude  I  read  to  the  last 
page,  and  the  book  is  closed." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

As  the  months  wore  on  into  winter  Randal  Ducie, 
in  the  pursuance  of  the  effort  to  rehabilitate  his 
broken  and  maimed  life,  was  often  in  Memphis. 
His  old  associates  had  an  eager  welcome  for  him, 
for  his  candid  and  genial  nature  was  supplemented 
by  a  tireless  energy  and  some  special  acumen  and 
active  experience  in  the  line  in  which  these  endow 
ments  were  now  needed.  The  levee  crisis  was  acute, 
and  the  planters  were  eager  to  formulate  an  ade 
quate  and  practical  defense  against  the  encroach 
ments  of  the  river,  with  State  or  Federal  aid,  rather 
than  have  the  Delta  serve,  as  they  claimed,  as  an  ex 
periment  station  for  the  Government.  Cotton  was 
their  objective, — not  science. 

Sometimes  a  poignant  pang  smote  the  heart  of 
the  lonely  man  as  some  absorbed  and  eager  acquaint 
ance  greeted  him,  from  force  of  habit,  with  the  old 
look  of  inquiry  as  to  his  identity,  one  of  those  who 
used  formerly  to  ask  inadvertently,  "Is  this  you,  or 
your  brother?"  eliciting  in  those  happy  days  the  de 
lighted  response  "Of  course,  it  is  my  brother." 

Alas,  how  Randal  wished  now  that  it  was  his 
brother, — to  be  himself  lying  in  that  quiet  grave  to 
which  he  was  sure  their  ill-fated  resemblance  had 
consigned  Adrian  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  and 
that  it  was  he  who  was  here  among  these  streets  of 
busy  men  with  many  a  long  year  of  life  before  him. 

417 


418        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

"But  you  should  thank  God  that  you  are  privi 
leged  to  suffer  in  his  stead,"  Hildegarde  would 
argue  with  him.  "He  would  have  had  all  this  tor 
ture  to  endure  if  you  had  been  the  one  called  away." 

Shortly  after  his  arrival  in  Memphis  he  had 
gravitated  to  her  father's  house,  where  he  often  sat 
for  hours  in  the  library  in  the  quiet  atmosphere  of 
the  books,  her  face  pensive,  illumined  by  the  flash 
and  sparkle  of  the  fire  as  she  worked  with  dainty, 
deft  fingers  on  a  bit  of  embroidery.  Informal  visits 
these,  and  often  other  members  of  the  family 
gathered  around  the  hearth, — her  father,  talking 
levee-board,  and  the  stage  of  the  river,  the  price  of 
cotton  and  the  dangers  of  overproduction;  her  col 
lege-boy  brother,  a  football  expert,  a  famous  half 
back  with  the  latest  sensations  of  the  gridiron  on 
Thanksgiving-day;  her  mother,  soft  and  sweet,  with 
that  frank  look  of  Hildegarde  in  her  duller  eyes,  for 
which  Randal  loved  her.  He  found  the  only  com 
fort  he  knew  in  this  group.  Once,  however,  the 
young  girl's  unthinking  candor  almost  stunned 
him. 

"Such  an  odd  thing,"  she  said  one  day  when  all 
were  present;  she  was  evidently  coming  from  far 
reaches  of  her  reverie;  she  had  been  carefully  match 
ing  the  skeins  for  the  embroidered  gentian  blooming 
under  the  benison  of  her  touch,  and  he  had  a  fleet 
ing  thought  that  she  might  have  rivaled  nature  had 
she  compared  them  to  the  tint  of  her  eyes.  "I  met 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  yesterday  at  the  Jennison  recep 
tion,  and  she  asked  me  such  a  strange  question." 

She  paused,  but  he  would  not  inquire,  and  the 
others,  realizing  the  malapropos  subject,  could  not 
sufficiently  command  their  embarrassment.  But 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        419 

the    transparent    Hildegarde    needed    no    urgency. 

"Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  asked  me,"  she  said,  laying 
all  the  skeins  together  in  her  right  hand  while  she 
looked  up  with  bright  interest,  "if  you  had  ever  told 
me  of  the  contents  of  the  letter  she  wrote  to  you 
some  months  ago." 

"And  what  did  you  answer?"  asked  Randal, 
breaking  the  awkward  silence. 

"Why,  of  course  I  told  her  that  you  had  never 
mentioned  the  letter,"  replied  Hildegarde,  with  a 
flash  of  surprise.  "I  told  her  the  truth." 

"You  did!  Why,  you  amaze  me!"  exclaimed 
Randal,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  gayety,  and  with  the 
laugh  that  rippled  around  the  circle  the  incident 
passed. 

Yet  this  incident  put  him  on  his  guard.  He  had 
long  since  lost  every  trace  of  the  sentiment  he  had 
once  felt  for  this  woman.  From  the  moment  he  had 
received  his  rejection,  years  ago,  he  had  realized 
that  he  had  been  mistaken  from  the  first  in  her 
nature.  With  many  men  the  contemplation  of  the 
magnitude  of  the  temptation,  the  splendor  of  the  op 
portunity  as  Floyd-Rosney's  wife,  might  have  served 
to  condone  in  a  degree  her  defection.  Not  so  with 
Randal  Ducie.  He  had  a  very  honest  self-respect. 
He  had  been  trained  at  his  mother's  knee  to  rever 
ence  the  high  ideals  of  life.  To  him,  Love  was  a 
sacred  thing,  Marriage  was  the  ordinance  of  God, 
and  a  mercenary  motive  a  profanation.  He  had 
been  poignantly  wounded  in  the  disappointment, 
humiliated,  in  some  sort,  yet  he  looked  upon  the  dis 
covery  that  she  was  vulnerable  to  this  specious  lure 
of  gain  as  an  escape,  and  he  set  all  the  strong  will 
of  his  stanchly  endowed  nature  to  recover  from  the 


420        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

influence  she  had  exerted  in  his  life.  Now,  so  long 
afterward,  when  he  had  not  only  reason  to  condemn 
and  resent  her  part  in  his  own  past,  but  to  detest  the 
very  sight  of  her,  the  sound  of  the  name  she  bore, 
he  could  not  imagine  how  she  could  be  the  victim  of 
the  obsession  that  she  was  aught  to  him  but  a  hate 
ful  living  lie,  a  presentment  of  avarice.  He  won 
dered  at  the  persuasion  of  a  woman,  perceived  by 
him  only  in  this  instance,  but  often  noticed  else 
where  by  the  observant  in  such  matters,  as  to  the 
unlimited  power  of  her  attractions.  She  can  never 
believe  no  ember  burns  amidst  the  ashes  of  a  for 
mer  attachment,  dulled  by  time  perhaps,  covered 
from  sight,  but  smouldering  still,  and  with  fresh 
fuel  ready  to  flame  forth  anew.  He  could  not  under 
stand  on  what  was  based  her  conviction  of  the  per 
manence  of  his  attachment.  On  her  true  faith  to 
bind  them  together  till  death? — it  had  been  tested 
and  found  wanting.  On  her  gifts  of  intellect? — the 
supposition  was  an  absurdity;  she  was  indubitably 
a  bright  and  a  cultivated  woman,  but  Randal  had 
been  educated  too  definitely  in  the  masculine  Ameri 
can  methods  to  think  of  sitting  at  the  feet  of  any 
woman.  On  her  beauty? — where  was  the  traditional 
delicacy  of  the  feminine  perceptions !  Did  she 
imagine  him  a  Turk  at  heart?  Her  beauty  might  at 
tract — it  could  never  hold.  In  the  old  days  of  his 
fond  affection  if  she  had  been  visited  by  some  dis 
figuring,  defacing  affliction  she  would  have  been  the 
same  to  him,  equally  dear,  and  but  that  she  herself 
had  stripped  off  the  mask  and  proclaimed  the  dis 
guise  that  had  befooled  him  she  would  have  been 
the  lady  of  his  heart,  the  cherished  treasure  of  his 
life  to  the  day  of  his  death. 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

Now  he  could  but  wish  that  she  would  withhold 
her  withering  hand  from  such  poor  values  as  she 
and  hers  had  left  him  in  life.  He  did  not  under 
stand  her  latest  demonstration.  But  for  Hilde- 
garde's  pellucid  candor  he  might  never  have  dreamed 
of  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  covert  interest  in  a  proposi 
tion  made  to  him  by  the  senior  partner  of  a  firm  of 
prominent  jewelers,  looking  to  the  purchase  of  the 
diamond  necklace  found  among  the  jewels  at  Ducie- 
hurst,  now  lying  in  a  safety  deposit  vault.  Ducie 
curtly  refused  to  entertain  an  offer.  Then  he  as 
curtly  asked: 

"But  why  should  you  think  I  would  wish  to  sell 
it?" 

Mr.  Dazzle  was  visibly  embarrassed,  but  still  ra 
tional. 

uThe  idea  was  suggested  to  me,  as  the  stones  are 
of  great — well — ahem — considerable  value,  and 
you  have  no  ladies  in  your  family." 

"Not  at  present,"  said  Randal,  stiffly. 

"True — true;  you  might  care  to  retain  them  if 
you  should  marry.  But  as  they  are  so  far  beyond 
the  pretensions  of  present-day  ornaments,  something 
more  suitable — and — and  your  being  extensively  in 
terested  in  cotton  planting  where  money  can  be  used 
to  advantage " 

"And  lost  to  disadvantage,  too,"  said  Ducie, 
grimly. 

"True — true — but  the  diamonds  being  wholly  un 
productive — they  are  cut  in  the  old  style,  too,  which 
tends  to  reduce  their  value " 

"You  wouldn't  have  an  antique  necklace  with  dia 
monds  cut  in  the  present  style?" 

"No — no;  I  was  considering  them  as  disassociated 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

from  their  setting,  which  is  very  rare  of  workman 
ship — that  is — I  thought — the  idea  was  suggested 
to  me" — Mr.  Dazzle  did  not  intend  to  imperil  his 
soul  by  lying  in  anybody's  interest — "the  idea  was 
suggested  to  me  that  perhaps  you  might  care  to  sell." 

"Not  at  all.  The  necklace  is  reserved  as  a  bridal 
gift,"  said  Ducie,  precipitately. 

"And  a  most  magnificent  one,"  declared  Mr. 
Dazzle,  his  face  beaming  with  the  enthusiasm  be 
fitting  his  vocation.  "I  hope  you  will  give  us  the 
commission  to  clean  and  put  the  necklace  in  order, 
see  to  the  clasp,  which  should  be  renewed,  possibly, 
as  a  precaution  against  loss, — all  those  details.  It 
will  appear  to  twice  the  advantage  that  it  did  when 
I  saw  it  at  the  time  you  and  your  brother  had  it 
appraised  with  a  view  to  dividing  the  valuables 
found  at  Duciehurst." 

Ducie  got  rid  of  the  man  without  further  com 
mitting  himself.  Then  in  surprise  he  demanded  of 
himself  why  he  had  said  this  thing,  when  nothing 
was  further  from  his  thoughts.  In  fact  it  had  been 
thrown  off  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  be  quit  of 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney's  suspected  interference  in  his 
affairs.  She  wear  the  revered  Ducie  heirlooms!  He 
would  work  his  fingers  to  the  bone  before  the  jewels 
should  go  on  the  market.  And  the  offensive  sug 
gestion  that  something  simpler,  cheaper,  in  the  man 
ner  of  the  present  day,  might  suffice  for  his  bridal 
gifts  when  he  should  be  called  upon  to  make  them, 
in  order  that  the  difference  might  go  to  forwarding 
his  business,  and  ease  the  struggle  for  meat  and 
bread,  was  so  characteristic  of  the  Floyd-Rosney 
methods  of  considering  the  affairs  of  other  people 
that  Randal  could  but  ascribe  it  to  her.  But  why 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        423 

had  his  ungoverned  impulse  broached  the  idea  of  a 
bridal  present?  he  wondered.  Her  interest,  her 
espionage  in  his  most  intimate  personal  concerns 
seemed  sinister,  and  he  would  fain  be  rid  of  the  very 
thought  of  her. 

The  reaction  had  been  great  when  Paula  had  re 
ceived  back  her  crafty  letter  of  condolence  with  the 
characteristic  endorsement  on  the  final  page.  Her 
pride  was  humiliated  to  the  ground,  and  her  heart 
pierced.  She  could  not  realize,  she  would  not  be 
lieve  that  he  no  longer  loved  her.  She  could  but 
think  that  were  not  other  considerations  held  para 
mount  he  would  have  flown  to  her  arms.  She  be 
came  ingenious  in  constructing  a  mental  status  to 
justify  his  course  on  some  other  theory — any  other 
theory — than  a  burned-out  flame.  He  was  in  the 
thrall  of  public  opinion,  she  argued.  He  fancied  it 
would  not  sustain  him  in  his  devotion  to  the  widow 
of  the  man  who  had  murdered  his  brother.  He  was 
ready  to  sacrifice  himself  and  her  also  that  he  might 
stand  unchallenged  by  the  world — the  careless  un- 
noting  world,  rolling  on  its  own  way,  that  would 
not  know  to-morrow  a  phase  of  the  whole  episode. 
What  was  a  gossip's  tongue  clacking  here  and  there 
in  comparison  with  their  long  deferred  happiness. 
How  should  a  censorious  frown  or  a  raised  eyebrow 
outweight  all  that  they  were,  all  that  they  had  been 
to  each  other — their  human,  pulsing  hearts!  If  she 
could  only  have  speech  of  him — yet  no!  She  could 
not  say  of  her  own  initiative  what  had  been  most 
difficult  to  intimate  in  writing.  She  must  wait,  and 
plan,  and  watch,  and  be  as  patient  as  she  might. 

Her  spirits  had  worn  low  in  the  process.  She  had 
begun  to  feel  the  keen  griefs  of  a  martyr.  Through 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

her  love  for  this  man,  what  had  she  not  suffered? 
From  the  moment  on  the  Cherokee  Rose  that  she 
had  seen  his  brother's  face,  so  nearly  a  facsimile  of 
his  own,  her  old  love  for  him  reasserted  itself  and 
would  not  be  denied.  Had  not  Adrian  been  of  the 
passengers  of  the  packet,  had  not  so  keen  and  intense 
a  reminder  of  the  old  days  risen  before  her,  life 
would  have  gone  on  as  heretofore.  She  would  have 
continued  to  adjust  her  moods  to  the  exactions  of 
her  arbitrary  husband,  as  she  had  been  well  con 
tent  to  do.  No  jealousy  would  have  inflamed  his 
causeless  suspicions.  He  would  have  been  still  in 
his  lordly  enjoyment  of  his  rich  opportunities  and 
Adrian  Ducie  alive  and  well.  She  had  been  pilloried 
before  the  public  gaze;  her  child  had  been  torn  from 
her  bosom;  her  husband  had  made  his  name,  the 
name  she  bore,  infamous  with  a  revolting  crime,  and 
was  dead  in  his  sins;  and  the  man  for  whose  sake — 
nay  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  sweet  memory  of  a  boy 
ish  worship,  a  tender  reciprocation  of  a  pure  and 
ardent  attachment — this  coil  of  events  was  set  in 
motion,  writes  that  he  has  read  the  story  to  the  end 
of  the  page,  and  the  book  is  closed.  Ah,  no — Ran 
dal  Ducie,  there  is  somewhat  more,  reading  between 
the  lines,  for  your  perusal,  and  the  book  may  be  re 
opened.  Her  heart  was  full  of  reproach  for  him, 
and  yet  she  believed  that  he  loved  her  and  secretly 
upbraided  him  that  he  did  not  love  her  more  than 
the  frown  of  the  world, — that  world  to  which  she 
had  in  her  fresh  youth  been  glad  to  do  homage  on 
her  bended  knees,  sacrificing  him  to  it,  and  her 
plighted  troth. 

She  was  restless;  she  could  not  be  still.    She  was 
out  every  day.    More  than  once  in  her  limousine  she 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        425 

caught  sight  of  him  on  the  sidewalk.  She  had 
fancied,  she  had  feared  he  might  not  speak,  but  he 
raised  his  hat  with  a  grave  dignity  and  a  look  wholly 
devoid  of  consciousness,  and  she  could  hang  no 
thread  of  a  theory  on  the  incident.  Once  he  chanced 
to  be  strolling  with  Hildegarde  Dean,  and  with  the 
recollection  of  her  fresh,  smiling,  girlish  face  Paula 
went  home  in  a  rage,  as  if  she  had  received  some 
bitter  affront,  as  if  her  tenure  on  his  affections  pre 
cluded  his  exchange  of  a  word  with  any  other 
woman,  the  tender  of  a  casual  courtesy.  Then  it 
was  that  she  projected  the  purchase  of  the  necklace. 
If  he  should — but  oh,  he  could  not!  That  girl 
should  not  wear  the  gorgeous  gewgaw,  which  she 
herself  had  rescued  at  such  pains  and  risk,  and  re 
stored  to  his  possession.  He  was  as  poor  as  pov 
erty — she  had  adopted  her  husband's  habit  of  scorn 
of  small  means — and  she  would  buy  it  secretly 
through  an  agent,  at  any  price. 

When  the  answer  came  from  the  jeweler  she  was 
stunned.  It  was  reserved  as  a  bridal  gift,  quotha. 
She  had  crystallized  the  very  thought  she  had  sought 
to  preclude.  The  mischance  tamed  her.  She  caught 
her  breath  and  took  counsel  with  sober  conserva 
tism.  She  must  be  wary;  she  must  make  no  false 
move.  Indeed,  she  told  herself  she  must  be  utterly 
quiescent;  she  must,  in  prudence,  in  self-respect, 
make  no  move  at  all.  Then  by  degrees  her  persistent 
hopefulness,  her  vehement  determination,  were  re 
asserted.  She  argued  that  no  immediate  bridal  was 
foreshadowed,  nor  with  whom.  She  herself  might 
wear  these  jewels, — which  she  had  discovered  and 
restored, — on  a  day  that  would  be  like  a  first  bridal, 


426        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

for  her  wedding  seemed  to  her  now  as  a  sacrifice 
to  Moloch. 

Some  time  later  she  chanced,  while  driving,  to 
meet  Hildegarde,  walking  alone.  Paula  joyously 
signaled  to  her  and  ordered  the  limousine  to  be 
drawn  up  to  the  curb.  "Come  with  me,"  she  said, 
genially,  "let's  have  a  long  drive  and  a  good  talk. 
I  was  just  thinking  of  you!" 

She  looked  most  attractive  as  she  smiled  at  the 
girl.  Her  ermine  furs,  including  the  toque — for 
she  had  cast  aside  even  the  perfunctory  weeds  she 
had  worn — added  an  especial  richness  and  dainti 
ness  to  a  wintry  toilette  of  black,  adhering  to  the 
convention  of  second  mouring,  it  being  now  almost 
a  year  since  Floyd-Rosney  had  startled  the  world 
by  his  manner  of  quitting  it.  Her  eyes  were  bright 
and  kindly,  her  cheek  delicately  flushed.  She  had  an 
increased  authority  or  autocracy  in  her  manner, 
which  might  have  come  about  from  unrestrained 
control  of  her  fortune  and  her  actions,  but  which 
seemed  to  the  girl  in  some  sort  coercive.  Hilde 
garde  felt  that  she  could  scarcely  have  refused  if 
she  would,  yet  indeed  she  did  not  wish  to  decline,  and 
soon  they  were  skimming  along  the  smooth  curves 
of  the  speedway  in  the  driving  park,  the  river, 
though  lower  than*  at  this  season  last  year,  glimpsed 
in  burnished  silver  now  and  again  through  the  trees. 

"I  have  a  good  scheme  for  you  and  me,  Hilde 
garde,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  and  as  the  two 
sat  together  she  slipped  one  hand  into  Hildegarde's 
chinchilla  muff  to  give  her  little  gloved  fingers  an 
affectionate  pressure.  "I  want  you  to  go  with  me 
as  my  guest  to  New  Orleans  for  Mardi  Gras, — 
doesn't  Lent  come  early  this  year?  The  yacht  is 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        427 

quite  ready  and  we  will  make  a  list  of  just  a  few 
friends  for  company.  And  afterward  to  my  house 
on  Saint  Simon's  Island." 

"Oh,  ideal,"  cried  Hildegarde  joyously.  "I  shall 
be  delighted  to  go." 

"I  think  Saint  Simon's  Island  is  the  choice  loca 
tion  for  the  penitential  season,"  said  Paula  flippant 
ly, — "savors  least  of  sackcloth  and  ashes." 

Hildegarde's  face  fell. 

"Oh,  did  I  tell  you,"  the  quick  Paula  broke  off 
suddenly,  "that  as  a  Lenten  offering  I  am  going  to 
furnish  a  room  and  endow  a  bed  in  the  new  Chanty 
Hospital?" 

"Oh,  how  lovely,"  cried  Hildegarde,  radiant  once 
more. 

"But  to  return  to  our  outing,"  resumed  Paula, 
"of  course,  under  the  circumstances,"  with  a  slant 
ing  glance  at  the  presumably  grief-stricken  ermine 
and  velvet,  "I  can't  make  up  a  party  of  pleasure  for 
myself, — it  must  be  complimentary  to  my  dear  young 
friend,  and  its  personnel  must  be  selected  with  that 
view."  Once  more  her  hand  crept  into  Hildegarde's 
muff. 

She  paused  reflectively  for  a  moment,  while  her 
mood  seemed  to  change,  and  when  she  went  on  it 
was  in  a  different  tone  and  with  a  crestfallen  look. 

"To  be  quite  frank  with  you,  dear,  I  have  a 
strong  personal  interest  in  the  occasion.  I  really 
want  an  excuse  to  get  out  of  the  town  myself. 
There's  a  man  here  whom  I  want  to  avoid,  and  I'm 
forever  meeting  him." 

"I  wonder,"  commented  the  guileless  girl. 

"It  is  always  easier  to  run  away  from  a  thing  like 
that  than  to  bring  it  to  a  crisis,  and  really  in  this  in- 


428       THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

stance  circumstances  will  not  admit  of  any  can 
vassing  of  the  matter." 

Hildegarde's  face  was  eloquent  of  interest,  but 
she  decorously  forbore  inquiry. 

"If  I  mention  the  name  you  won't  repeat  it, 
though  I  don't  see  why  I  should,  but  Heaven  knows 
I  am  so  lonely  I  long  to  confide  my  troubles  to  some 
sympathetic  soul." 

And  now  it  was  Hildegarde's  hand  that  stole  into 
the  ermine  muff  with  an  ardent  little  clasp  which  was 
convulsively  returned. 

"You  can  say  anything  you  wish  to  me,  dear  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney,  and  rely  on  my  silence." 

She  turned  such  pellucidly  clear  azure  eyes  on 
Paula.  She  looked  so  docile  and  ingenuous,  that 
for  one  moment  the  heart  of  the  schemer  almost  mis 
gave  her.  And  indeed  in  the  old  days,  before  Paula 
ever  met  Floyd-Rosney,  she  would  have  been  in 
capable  of  the  duplicity  which  she  now  contemplated. 
But  when  sordid  worldly  motives  are  permitted  to 
enter  the  soul  of  a  woman  and  to  dominate  it  they 
work  its  ultimate  disintegration,  despite  the  presence 
of  worthier  traits  which  otherwise  might  have 
proved  cohesive.  As,  however,  she  spoke  the  name 
already  on  her  lips  she  detected  a  quiver  in  the  little 
hand  she  held,  and  that  vague  tremor  served  to  re 
new  her  purpose  and  nerved  her  to  go  on.  "It  is 
Randal  Dude,"  she  said. 

For  she  had  deliberately  planned  at  whatever  sac 
rifice  of  truth  to  implant  distrust  and  aversion  to 
ward  Randal  Ducie  in  the  mind  of  this  girl  of  high 
ideals;  to  remove  her  for  a  time  from  the  sphere  of 
his  influence  and  the  opportunity  of  explanation;  in 
the  interval  to  supplant  him  in  her  estimation  with 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        429 

others  of  carefully  vaunted  attributes.  By  the 
time  Hildegarde  Dean  should  return  from  Saint 
Simon's  Island  she  would  not  tolerate  his  presence, 
and  in  the  humiliation  of  her  contempt  Randal 
Ducie  might  find  a  solace  in  recurring  to  the  page 
of  that  sweet  old  story,  albeit  he  had  so  hardily  de 
clared  the  book  was  closed. 

"It  is  Randal  Ducie,"  Paula  repeated.  "You 
know  long  ago, — is  that  front  window  closed? — 
these  chauffeurs  hear  everything  if  one  is  not  care 
ful, — well,  long  ago  when  I  was  with  my  grand 
mother, — we  lived  at  Ingleside,  Ran  Ducie  and  I 
were  engaged.  Did  you  know  that?" 

"I  have  heard  it,"  said  Hildegarde,  her  face  tense 
and  troubled,  her  eyes  unseeing  and  dreamily  fixed. 

"You  have  heard,  too,  that  I  threw  him  over, 
having  the  opportunity  to  make  a  wealthy  match." 

"Ye-es,"  admitted  Hildegarde,  embarrassed, 
"people  say  anything,  you  know.  They  gossip  so 
awfully." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  looking  out 
pathetically  at  the  budding  trees  of  the  similitude  of 
a  forest  as  the  car  swung  down  the  broad,  smooth 
curves,  "it  was  the  other  way  about.  It  was  he  who 
changed  his  mind.  Then  I  had  the  opportunity  of 
the  grand  match,  the  first  time  I  ever  was  in  New 
Orleans — and  I  took  it  out  of  pique.  A  girl  is  such 
a  poor,  silly,  little  fool." 

Hildegarde  was  silent.  There  was  so  strong  an 
expression  of  negation,  of  condemnation,  of  doubt 
on  her  face  that  Paula  went  on  precipitately. 

"Of  course,  I  wasn't  in  the  least  justified." 

"And  you  realized  that?"  said  Hildegarde. 

"You  see,  I  didn't  love  my  husband.    You  don't 


430        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

understand  these  things,  child.  He  was  kind,  in  his 
way,  and  rich,  and  talented,  and  handsome " 

"Oh,  yes,  he  was  splendid  looking,"  said  Hilde 
garde,  sustaining  her  pose  of  interest,  but  her 
lips  were  white. 

"But  I  didn't  love  him — and  I  loved  Randal.  A 
girl,  though,  Hildegarde,  cannot  remonstrate  against 
inconstancy.  Randal  came  to  me  and  said  he  had 
mistaken  the  state  of  his  feelings,  that  the  interest  he 
had  felt  for  me  was  merely  because  we  happened  to 
be  the  only  two  young  people  in  the  neighborhood 
and  were  thrown  together  so  often ;  that  he  realized 
this  as  soon  as  he  was  again  in  the  world,  and  that  it 
was  foolish  for  him  to  think  of  taking  a  wife  in  view 
of  his  limited  resources.  He  asked  to  be  released. 
So  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  say  but  'Good  day, 
Sir,'  with  what  dignity  I  could  muster, — for,  my 
dear  girl,  'Good  day'  had  already  been  said  by  him. 
Oh,  kind  Heaven,  why  do  women  have  such  keen 
memories?  It  wasn't  yesterday,  surely." 

Paula  threw  her  face  suddenly  into  its  wonted 
pretty  and  placid  and  haughty  contour,  and  bowed 
and  smiled  to  a  passing  car,  filled  with  bowing  and 
smiling  faces. 

"I  couldn't  help  feeling  a  bit  triumphant  that  such 
a  notable  catch  as  Mr.  Floyd-Rosney — so  cultivated, 
and  talented,  and  wealthy — should  single  me  out  as 
his  preference  as  soon  as  he  saw  me." 

"I  think  your  feeling  was  very  natural,"  said 
Hildegarde,  "but  I  don't  see  why  you  should  leave 
town  on  Randal  Ducie's  account." 

What  made  her  lips  so  dry,  she  wondered.  They 
fumbled  almost  unintelligibly  on  the  words. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  that  isn't  the  end  of  it.     He  is 


THE    STOEY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

all  for  taking  it  back  now;  for  renewing  the  old 
romance.  He  has  a  thousand  reasons  for  his  defec 
tion,  the  chief  being — :and  it  was  really  true — that 
he  couldn't  afford  to  marry  and  was  pushed  to  the 
wall  by  some  debts  that  he  had  contrived  to  make. 
But,  Hildegarde,  the  real  fact  is  not  the  revival  of 
his  love  for  me — very  warm  it  is  now,  if  he  is  to  be 
believed — but — you  would  never  realize  it,  you  are 
such  an  unworldly,  uncalculating  little  kitten — but, 
I  have  at  my  disposal  a  great  fortune,  with  nobody 
to  say  me  nay.  I  am  one  of  the  largest  taxpayers  in 
the  county,  and  that  does  make  a  man's  heart  so 
tender  to  his  old  love;  the  girl  who  adored  him,  who 
told  him  all  her  little,  foolish  heart,  and  let  him  kiss 
her  good-by,  always,  and  lied  to  her  grandmother, 
and  told  the  unsuspecting  old  lady  she  never  did. 
Oh,  why  are  women's  memories  weighted  to  burst 
ing  with  trifles!  Now,  Hildegarde,  haven't  you 
noticed  how  much  Ran  Ducie  has  been  in  town  all 
last  fall  and  this  spring?" 

Hildegarde  had,  indeed,  noticed  it.  She  nodded 
assent.  She  was  beyond  speech. 

"That's  his  errand,  my  dear,  making  up  for  lost 
time.  Here  we  are  at  your  home.  Thank  you  so 
much  for  giving  me  the  chance  to  go.  I'll  make  it 
lovely  for  you.  The  yacht  casts  off  at  five  to-morrow 
afternoon,  and  the  limousine  will  call  for  you  at 
four." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

HILDEGARDE  passed  a  wakeful  night  of  troubled 
thought.  Only  after  the  tardy  dawn  of  the  early 
spring  was  in  the  room  did  she  fall  into  the  dull 
slumber  of  exhaustion,  from  which  she  roused  at 
last,  unrefreshed  and  languid.  Before  she  broke 
her  fast  she  dispatched  a  note  to  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney, 
declining  on  second  thoughts  the  invitation  to  make 
the  trip  to  New  Orleans  and  St.  Simon's  Island, 
which  she  had  welcomed  so  enthusiastically  when  it 
was  broached  the  previous  day.  She  gave  no  reason 
for  her  change  of  mind,  but  expressed  her  thanks 
very  prettily  and  courteously;  the  conventional, 
suave  phrases  exacted  by  decorum  incongruous  with 
the  pale,  stern,  set  face  that  bent  above  them.  Her 
mother  cried  out  in  surprise  and  solicitude  when  she 
came  into  the  library,  with  this  mask,  so  to  speak, 
alien  to  the  joyous  countenance  she  was  wont  to 
wear,  so  soft  and  glowing,  so  bland  and  gay,  but 
she  petulantly  put  aside  all  inquiries,  declaring  that 
she  was  quite  well  and  only  wanted  to  be  left  alone. 
To  be  quit  of  the  family  she  escaped  into  the  soli 
tary  sun-parlor,  and  sat  there  in  a  wicker  chair 
among  the  palms,  and  watched  the  blooms  in  the 
window-boxes  that  illumined  the  space  with  their 
vivid  glintings.  For  there  was  no  sun  to-day — a 
hazy,  soft,  gray  day,  and  but  for  the  gleam  of  her 
white  dress  in  the  leafy  shadows  Randal  Ducie 

432 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        433 

might  not  have  seen  her  there  when  he  was  ushered 
into  the  library;  after  somewhat  perfunctory  greet 
ings  to  her  father  and  mother  he  strode,  with  the 
freedom  of  an  acknowledged  friend  of  the  family, 
through  the  room  into  the  sun-parlor  and  sat  down 
beside  her. 

She  was  wearing  a  house  dress  of  white  wool, 
sparsely  trimmed  with  only  a  band  of  Persian  em 
broidery  about  the  sleeves  and  belt  and  around  the 
neck,  which  was  cut  in  a  high  square,  showing  her 
delicate  throat.  She  loked  up  embarrassed  as  he 
came  in,  conscious  that  she  had  on  no  guimpe,  and 
no  lace  on  the  sleeves,  and  murmured  something 
about  not  being  fit  to  be  seen.  But  in  his  mascu 
line  inexperience  he  perceived  no  lack  in  point  of 
the  finish  of  her  attire,  though  the  change  of  her 
countenance  instantly  struck  his  attention. 

"Oh,  what  has  happened  ?"  he  cried,  solicitously. 
"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing — nothing  at  all,"  she  replied,  scarcely 
lifting  her  heavily  lidded  eyes.  "I  wish  everybody 
would  quit  asking  me  that." 

"I  can  see  that  something  is  troubling  you  dread 
fully,"  he  protested.  "Won't  you  let  me  help  you? 
I  could  brush  it  away  with  one  hand." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  she  declared,  irritably. 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence  between 
them  as  he  sat  gazing  at  her  pallid  and  listless  face, 
with  its  downcast  and  dreary  eyes,  her  languid,  half- 
reclining  attitude,  her  idle,  nerveless  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap.  The  change  in  her  was  pathetic, — ap 
pealing. 

"See  here,  Miss  Dean,  trust  me;  if  you  have 
stolen  a  horse,  I  will  hide  him  for  you." 


434        THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST 

An  unwilling  smile  crept  to  the  verge  of  her 
drooping  lips,  but  she  ejaculated  impatiently: 

"Oh,  nonsense!" 

"I  don't  want  to  intrude  on  your  confidence,  but, 
— but" — with  deep  gravity  and  a  lowered  voice, 
"have  you  allowed  yourself  to  become  involved  in 
some — conspiracy  against  the  government?" 

The  unwelcome  laugh  had  crept  into  her  eyes  as 
she  lifted  her  heavy  lids  and  glanced  at  him. 

"Oh,  you  know  I  haven't!" 

Then  the  contending  emotions  were  resolved  into 
tears,  and  slowly  and  painfully  they  overflowed  her 
sapphire  eyes,  coursing  one  by  one  down  her  white 
cheeks. 

"I  should  not  have  spoken,"  he  said,  contritely, 
"I  only  add  to  your  distress.  Forgive  me.  I'd  bet 
ter  go." 

"No — no — don't.  But  I  can't  explain.  I've 
promised — only  this  I  know — I  can't  say  how  I 
know,  but  I  know  that  my  best  friend  has  told  me  a 
lie — a  wicked,  defamatory,  deliberate  lie — and  I 
can't  forgive  it." 

"Why  should  you  forgive  it?"  he  asked.  "It  is 
the  limit,  the  unforgivable." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  The  tears  welled 
up  anew  in  the  blue  eyes  and  the  white  cheeks  were 
all  wet  with  them;  however,  she  mopped  them  with 
her  handkerchief  rolled  into  a  little  ball  for  the 
purpose. 

"It  was  such  a  cruel  lie,  deliberately  planned,  so 
circumstantial,"  she  sobbed,  "so  plausible,  appar 
ently  confirmed  by  facts.  I  do  believe  it  would  have 
deceived  anybody,  everybody,  but  me.  I  can't  con 
trovert  it — the  circumstances  are  put  of  my  scope, 


THE    STORY    OF    DUCIEHURST        435 

But  I  know — I  know — I  know  of  my  own  accord, — I 
can't  say  how, — but  every  breath  I  draw,  every  fiber 
in  me  is  a  witness  of  the  truth — the  eternal  truth !" 

She  burst  into  a  tempest  of  sobs,  and  Ducie  was 
carried  beyond  bounds. 

"Oh,  you  must  not,  you  shall  not,  give  yourself 
so  much  pain  for  this  vile  liar,  whoever  it  is.  Have 
some  mercy  on  me,  if  not  on  yourself.  I  can't  en 
dure  to  see  you  so  distressed — it  breaks  my  heart.  I 
have  loved  you  too  long,  too  devotedly " 

He  paused  abruptly;  he  had  not  intended  to 
broach  the  subject  thus,  to  put  his  fate  to  the  touch 
while  she  was  hardly  herself,  overwhelmed  by  the 
agony  of  some  poignant,  covert  grief  which  he  could 
not  share.  Surely  this  was  not  the  moment  to  de 
cide  the  course  of  his  future  life  and  hers.  He  had 
had  his  grave  misgivings  as  to  her  preference.  She 
was  joyous  and  lovely,  and  sweet  and  congenial  to 
many  alike  who  basked  in  the  radiance  of  her  charm. 
She  was  the  reigning  belle  of  the  winter,  and  doubt 
less  her  relatives  entertained  high  ambitions  as  to 
her  settlement  in  life.  Since  the  loss  of  Duciehurst 
from  his  material  hopes  and  prospects  he  had  scarce 
ly  felt  himself  justified  in  asking  her  to  share  his  re 
strictions  and  limited  resources.  He  lived  on  the 
look  in  her  eyes,  a  chance  word  among  all  the  others, 
and  he  had  not  had  hope  enough,  encouragement 
enough  of  her  preference  to  urge  his  suit  upon  her. 
He  felt  as  if  he  stood  in  an  illumination  of  heaven 
and  earth  when  she  turned  her  face  suddenly,  and 
asked: 

"How  long?" 

He  had  both  her  little  hands  in  his  when  he  strove 
to  differentiate  for  her  just  when  and  how  he  fir§t 


436       THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST 

recognized  the  unfolding  of  this  flower  of  love  to 
irradiate  his  life  with  bloom  and  fragrance  and 
then  to  urge  upon  her  some  word  of  promise  to  set 
his  plunging  heart  at  rest. 

Her  face,  all  fluctuating  with  happy  smiles  and 
flushes,  grew  affectedly  grave  as  she  seemed  to  con 
sider. 

"I  am  not  much  like  a  parched  flower,'1  she  said, 
ubut  I  have  been  waiting  some  time  for  this  dew- 
drop." 

"Oh,  if  I  had  only  known,  how  much  I  could  have 
saved  myself,"  exclaimed  Randal,  voicing  the  senti 
ment  of  many  an  accepted  lover. 

"I  expected  this — remark — of  yours,"  she  de 
clared,  her  blue  eyes  archly  glancing,  "at  the  De 
Lille  reception — 'way  back,  'way  back  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  when  you  said  in  such  an  impassioned  voice, 
'Will  you — will  you  have  some  more  frappe?'  " 

Then  they  both  laughed  out  joyously,  and  her 
father  in  the  library,  turning  over  the  journal  in  his 
hand  to  get  at  the  river  news,  had  a  vague  realiza 
tion  of  the  instability  of  the  moods  of  women  and 
especially  of  girls,  and  was  pleased  that  Hildegarde 
had  recovered  her  equanimity  since  her  tiff  against 
Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney,  as  he  interpreted  it,  had  in 
duced  her  to  forego  her  charming  springtide  outing. 

The  cruise,  though  somewhat  delayed,  that  the 
party  of  guests  might  be  selected  anew  and  assem 
bled,  took  place  according  to  the  plans  of  Mrs. 
Floyd-Rosney,  at  once  the  most  discriminating  and 
lavish  of  hostesses;  but  before  the  Aglaia  weighed 
anchor  the  news  of  the  engagement  was  sown  broad 
cast  in  the  town  and  it  became  the  subject  of  con 
versation  one  day  *s  the  yacht  steamed  down  the 


THE   STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST        437 

Mississippi  on  her  mission  of  pleasure.  Mrs.  Floyd- 
Rosney,  whose  experience  and  training  had  de 
veloped  great  powers  of  self-control,  hearkened  with 
special  interest  to  the  details  of  the  gossip,  and  often 
commented  characteristically.  The  bride-elect,  it 
was  surmised,  would  receive  splendid  presents,  in 
view  of  her  many  wealthy  relatives  and  friends  and 
her  great  popularity,  but  none  could  compare  with 
the  necklace  of  Ducie  diamonds,  the  gift  of  the 
groom,  which  it  was  said  she  would  wear  with  her 
wedding  dress  of  white  satin. 

"And  how  ridiculous  for  people  of  their  limited 
means,"  cried  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney.  Her  late  hus 
band  himself  could  hardly  have  seemed  more  scorn 
ful  of  moderate  circumstances. 

"Except  that  the  necklace  is  an  heirloom,"  said 
Colonel  Kenwynton. 

"A  man  in  love  thinks  nothing  is  too  fine,"  sug 
gested  one  of  the  ladies. 

"Randal  Ducie  is  not  and  never  was  in  love  with 
Hildegarde,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  with  an  air 
of  much  discernment.  "She  is  not  of  the  type  that 
would  appeal  to  him;  but  she  was  very  instant  in 
bringing  herself  to  his  notice  and  diverting  his  mind, 
and  taking  him  out  of  himself  after  his  bereavement 
and  so  became  a  sort  of  consolatory  habit." 

"That  is  a  beautiful  idea,"  said  Colonel  Ken- 
wynton  warmly, — "to  add  to  the  blessed  relation 
of  a  wife  the  sacred  mission  of  a  ministering  angel." 

This  was  not  in  the  least  what  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney 
had  intended  to  intimate,  as  was  abundantly  mani 
fest  by  the  thinly  veiled  anger  and  repugnance  on 
her  face,  which  was  now  beginning  to  have  need  of 
all  the  suavity  and  grace  she  could  command.  It 


438        THE    STORY   OF   DUCIEHURST 

was  growing  perceptibly  hard  in  these  days,  and  its 
incipient  angularities  were  more  definitely  asserted. 
There  was  a  recurrent  expression  of  bitter  antag 
onism  in  her  eyes  that  gave  added  emphasis  to  the 
satiric  fleer  in  the  occasional  upward  lift  of  her  chin. 
People  were  already  commenting  on  the  strange  de 
terioration  in  her  beauty  of  late,  and  although 
Colonel  Kenwynton  was  in  no  degree  aware  of  the 
reason  for  her  state  of  mind,  he  felt  vaguely  de 
pressed  by  her  look  and  manner. 

He  rose  presently  and  strolled  away  from  the 
group  on  the  deck,  smoking  his  cigar  and  scanning 
the  weather  signs  of  the  coming  evening.  The  stress 
of  the  subject  of  Randal  Ducie's  bereavement 
weighed  heavily  on  his  nerves  in  this  vicinity.  If, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  it  could  be  so  easily  and 
openly  mentioned  here  he  was  not  sure  of  his  ability 
to  listen  with  discretion.  The  world  was  growing 
strange  to  him, — he  felt  himself  indeed  a  survival. 
He  did  not  understand  such  views  as  seemed  to 
possess  this  woman,  such  standards  of  right,  such 
induration  of  sensibilities.  Man  and  soldier  though 
he  was,  he  could  look  only  with  glooming  and  averse 
eyes  at  the  wreck  of  the  Cherokee  Rose,  where  a 
dread  deed  was  wrought,  lying  white  and  stark, 
skeleton-wise,  like  bleaching  bones  on  the  sand-bar 
in  that  immaterial  region  between  the  pallid  mists 
of  the  evening  and  the  gray  sheen  of  the  river. 
Very  melancholy  the  aspect  of  the  forlorn  craft,  he 
thought  in  passing,  and  he  scarcely  wondered  at  the 
prevalence  of  the  riverside  legend  that  strange  pres 
ences  were  wont  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon 
on  this  grim,  storied  wreck  of  the  Mississippi. 

He  could  not  imagine  how  Mrs.  Floyd-Rosney  in 


THE    STORY    OF   DUCIEHURST        439 

pursuit  of  pleasure  could  endure  to  pass  this  poig 
nantly  ghastly  reminder,  and  still  further  down  the 
stream  to  approach  the  site  of  Duciehurst  under  its 
swirling  depths, — the  packets  now  made  a  landing 
called  by  the  name  a  mile  to  the  rearward  of  the 
spot  where  the  old  mansion  had  stood.  But  pres 
ently  the  graceful  yacht  was  steaming  swiftly  down 
this  glamourous  reach  of  the  river,  and  beneath  its 
gliding  shadow  in  inconceivable  depths  lay  this 
epitome  of  the  past, — the  demolished  home  altar, 
with  its  spent  incense  of  domestic  affection,  the  lost 
hopes,  with  their  lure  of  tenuous  illusions;  the  futile 
turmoils  of  grief;  the  transient  elation  of  joy;  the 
final  climax  of  death, — all  the  constituent  elements 
of  human  experience.  Now  they  were  naught,  nulli 
fied,  while  the  world  swept  on  uncaring,  typified  by 
the  swift  yacht,  leaving  astern  the  site  of  oblivion. 


E  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  Mac- 
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BOOKS  BY 

CHARLES  EGBERT  CRADDOCK 

(MISS  MARY  MURFREE) 


The  Storm  Center 

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interest  than  this  story  of  love  and  war  and  life.  The  war  scenes, 
the  guiding  motives  of  the  opposed  sides,  the  pictures  of  the  old 
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and  the  breadth  of  their  portrayal.  The  book  is  one  to  be  held 
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The  Amulet 

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— Independent. 

The  Story  of  Old  Fort  Loudon 

Cloth,  $1.50  net. 
Standard  School  Library  Edition,  500.  net. 

A  tale  of  the  Cherokees  and  the  Pioneers  of  Tennessee,  1760, 
by  the  author  of  The  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains. 
Illustrated  by  Ernest  C.  Peixotto. 


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The  Wife  of  Sir  Isaac  Harman 

By  H.  G.  WELLS. 

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The  name  of  H.  G.  Wells  upon  a  title  page  is  an  assurance 
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present  book  Mr.  Wells  surpasses  even  his  previous  efforts. 
He  is  writing  of  modern  society  life,  particularly  of  one  very 
charming  young  woman,  Lady  Harman,  who  finds  herself  so 
bound  in  by  conventions,  so  hampered  by  restrictions,  largely 
those  of  a  well  intentioned  but  short  sighted  husband,  that  she 
is  ultimately  moved  to  revolt.  The  real  meaning  of  this  revolt, 
its  effect  upon  her  life  and  those  of  her  associates  are  narrated 
by  one  who  goes  beneath  the  surface  in  his  analysis  of  human 
motives.  In  the  group  of  characters,  writers,  suffragists,  labor 
organizers,  social  workers  and  society  lights  surrounding  Lady 
Harman,  and  in  the  dramatic  incidents  which  compose  the  years 
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novel  which  is  significant  in  its  interpretation  of  the  trend  of 
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The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore 


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"The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  etc. 

With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  Anton  Fischer. 

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around  Cape  Horn  in  a  large  sailing  vessel.  The  Mutiny  of  the 
Elsinore  is  the  same  kind  of  tale  as  its  famous  predecessor,  and 
by  those  who  have  read  it,  it  is  pronounced  even  more  stirring. 
Mr.  London  is  here  writing  of  scenes  and  types  of  people  with 
which  he  is  very  familiar,  the  sea  and  ships  and  those  who  live 
in  ships.  In  addition  to  the  adventure  element,  of  which  there 
is  an  abundance  of  the  usual  London  kind,  a  most  satisfying  kind 
it  is,  too,  there  is  a  thread  of  romance  involving  a  wealthy,  tired 
young  man  who  takes  the  trip  on  the  Elsinore,  and  the  captain's 
daughter.  The  play  of  incident,  on  the  one  hand  the  ship's 
amazing  crew  and  on  the  other  the  lovers,  gives  a  story  in  which 
the  interest  never  lags  and  which  demonstrates  anew  what  a 
master  of  his  art  Mr.  London  is. 


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The  Three  Sisters 

By   MAY   SINCLAIR,   Author  of  "The   Divine 
Fire,"  "The  Return  of  the  Prodigal,"  etc. 

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of  Miss  Sinclair's  books,  will  at  once  accord  her  unlimited  praise 
for  her  character  work.  The  Three  Sisters  reveals  her  at  her 
best.  It  is  a  story  of  temperament,  made  evident  not  through 
tiresome  analyses  but  by  means  of  a  series  of  dramatic  incidents. 
The  sisters  of  the  title  represent  three  distinct  types  of  woman 
kind.  In  their  reaction  under  certain  conditions  Miss  Sinclair 
is  not  only  telling  a  story  of  tremendous  interest  but  she  is 
really  showing  a  cross  section  of  life. 


The  Rise  of  Jennie  Gushing 

By  MARY    S.    WATTS,    Author    of    "Nathan 
Burke,"  "Van  Cleve,"  etc. 

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In  Nathan  Burke  Mrs.  Watts  told  with  great  power  the  story 
of  a  man.  In  this,  her  new  book,  she  does  much  the  same  thing 
for  a  woman.  Jennie  Gushing  is  an  exceedingly  interesting 
character,  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  any  that  Mrs.  Watts 
has  yet  given  us.  The  novel  is  her  life  and  little  else,  but  that 
is  a  life  filled  with  a  variety  of  experiences  and  touching  closely 
many  different  strata  of  humankind.  Throughout  it  all,  from 
the  days  when  as  a  thirteen-year-old,  homeless,  friendless  waif, 
Jennie  is  sent  to  a  reformatory,  to  the  days  when  her  beauty  is 
the  inspiration  of  a  successful  painter,  there  is  in  the  narrative 
an  appeal  to  the  emotions,  to  the  sympathy,  to  the  affections, 
that  cannot  be  gainsaid. 


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Saturday's  Child 


By  KATHLEEN  NORRIS,  Author  of  "Mother," 

"The  Treasure,"  etc. 
With  frontispiece  in  colors,  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Decorated  cloth,  izmo.     $1.35  net. 

"  Friday1  s  child  is  loving  and  giving, 
Saturday's  child  must  work  for  her  living. " 

The  title  of  Mrs.  Norris's  new  novel  at  once  indicates  its 
theme.  It  is  the  life  story  of  a  girl  who  has  her  own  way  to  make 
in  the  world.  The  various  experiences  through  which  she  passes, 
the  various  viewpoints  which  she  holds  until  she  comes  finally 
to  realize  that  service  for  others  is  the  only  thing  that  counts, 
are  told  with  that  same  intimate  knowledge  of  character,  that 
healthy  optimism  and  the  belief  in  the  ultimate  goodness  of 
mankind  that  have  distinguished  all  of  this  author's  writing. 
The  book  is  intensely  alive  with  human  emotions.  The  reader 
is  bound  to  sympathize  with  Mrs.  Norris's  people  because  they 
seem  like  real  people  and  because  they  are  actuated  by  motives 
which  one  is  able  to  understand.  Saturday's  Child  is  Mrs.  Nor 
ris's  longest  work.  Into  it  has  gone  the  very  best  of  her  crea 
tive  talent.  It  is  a  volume  which  the  many  admirers  of  Mother 
will  gladly  accept. 

Neighborhood  Stories 

By  ZONA  GALE,  Author  of  "Friendship  Village," 
"The  Love  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre,"  etc. 
With  frontispiece.     Decorated  cloth,  izmo.  boxed.     $1.50  net. 

In  Neighborhood  Stories  Miss  Gale  has  a  book  after  her  own 
heart,  a  book  which,  with  its  intimate  stories  of  real  folks,  is 
not  unlike  Friendship  Village.  Miss  Gale  has  humor;  she  has 
lightness  of  touch;  she  has,  above  all,  a  keen  appreciation  of 
human  nature.  These  qualities  are  reflected  in  the  new  volume. 
Miss  Gale's  audience,  moreover,  is  a  constantly  increasing  one. 
To  it  her  beautiful  little  holiday  novel,  Christmas,  added  many 
admirers.  Neighborhood  Stories  will  not  only  keep  these,  but 
is  certain  to  attract  many  more  as  well. 


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